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WALSINGHAM, 



BY CAPT. FREDERIC CHAMIER, R. N. 

II 

AUTHOR OF 

“ LIFE OF A SAILOR,” “ BEN BRACE,” &c. 


“ I have set my life upon a cast, 

And I will stand the hazard of the die.” 

Shakspeark. 


IN TWO VOLUMES. 

VOL. I, 


PHILADELPHIA: 
CAREY, LEA AND BLANCHARD. 


1838. 


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WALSINGH AM, 

THE GAMESTER. 


CHAPTER I. 

When the chilling winter of age checks the current of the 
blood, — when sickness and disease, distress and misery, cast a 
gloom over the valley of the shadow of death, — then it is that 
the mind looks back with horror on the black picture of its own 
degradation, and all the future is dark and dismal, without hope 
and without consolation. To those in the holy offices of reli- 
gion how sedulously do the unhappy unburthen their minds, and 
how eagerly they solicit absolution ! Even in their confessions 
they feel the load lightened, and experience, when they have 
made another a confidant in their weakness, that they have 
relieved themselves without adding to their neighbour’s misfor- 
tunes. Thus the man deprived of parents, wife, and children,— 
the blighted branch on the blighted stem, sinking rapidly in the 
grave which yawns to receive him, — feels the consolation others 
have experienced as he proceeds to cleanse his foul bosom from 
the perilous stuff that runs within it. 

It is true that mankind in general deceive themselves in the 
motives by which they are actuated ; and perhaps even when 
they affirm that they are induced to publish their crimes, their 
exposures of a career of weakness and of vice, as much from a 
desire to serve as a beacon to others, (that, like the drunken 
Helot, they may repel, rather than attract,) as to unload the 
terrible weight tliat drags down their almost exhausted nature, — 
perhaps they may be impelled by a less noble motive, they may 
be induced to anatomise themselves from the want of some 


4 


WALSINGHAM, 


greater stimulant ; for those who, until poverty forced them from 
the path, were familiar with the greatest of all excitements, may 
feel a momentary relief when the pen embodies their thoughts, 
when they marshal their reflections on this ambiguous and dis- 
tressing world, and when they retrace those stirring scenes, in 
which, notwithstanding their fallen and degraded state, they still 
in imagination seem to live, to move, and have their being. 
Happy°indeed should he feel who finds that his example has 
been a warning to others, and that the records of crime have 
turned one man from that course which must inevitably end in 
poverty — must ruin the health and degrade the mind ! 

How far legislators are to blame, who by the plunder of the 
subject enrich the coffers of the state, is a point on which it is 
useless to insist; but surely that government has little to pride 
itself upon, which can allow a monopoly of vice, and by the 
exorbitant price paid for permission to erect and open these 
sinks of iniquity, themselves almost legalise fraud — nay, urge 
the necessity of its practice in order that the proprietors may be 
enabled to clear a sufficiency to pay that government. 

Honesty wavers when poverty assaults : the man of an ava- 
ricious cast of mind can never view with indifference the piles of 
gold which glisten on the Spanish gambling-table, or look un- 
moved at the numerous billets tie banqu^ that are seen through 
the sliding boxes of the salon or Frascati’s. In this country it 
is worse than either, because it is illegal to gamble, and yet it is 
sanctioned : the police are carefully excluded, the law has no 
eyes for the protection of the swindled, and when intoxication 
succeeds the first fury of continual losses, who can be answer- 
able, or who can protect the unfortunate man from the pinching 
gripe of the professed gambler, the greedy and insatiable grasp 
of the practised swindler'? We know the degradation of mind, 
the absolute ruin of health and property, which follows the path 
of those thus unhappily lured by their own proper protectors. 
The bridges which adorn the Seine are generally the last spot 
occupied by the living body of the gambler in France, and the 
Morgue shows the skeleton carcase of the plundered and the 
plunderer in all the horrid nakedness of deformity. 

The lotteries in England for a time contributed to demoralise 
the poorer classes ; whilst the taste for dress, and the prospect 
of obtaining a chance to gratify it, made that class on whom our 
comforts depend in an equal ratio with their honesty, swerve 
from the path of virtue in order to obtain that which chance ren- 
dered it almost impossible to possess. Thus the government 


THE GAMESTER. 


5 


which sanctions gambling offers a premium upon dishonesty: 
but doubly culpable is that government which, pretending to 
wear the outward garb of sincerity, winks behind the false mask, 
and allows, yes publicly allows — what by law is prohibited. 
Look at the booths at a race : under the. very eye of royalty 
must villany flourish, that villany being illegal. It is needless 
to carry this idea farther ; indirectly we do what the French 
government does openly : both are to blame, both encourage 
dishonesty, both contribute to the ruin and demoralisation of the 
subject. 

Still is the infatuation so great, that although we know the 
chances which are against us — we know the sum the proprie- 
tors must win in order to carry on the establishment, yet we go 
with a poor capital to fight against that which can command 
thousands — we slake our money against the fearful odds of su- 
perior capital and experienced dexterity. 

When Robert Douglass had placed his last relative in the 
grave — had returned to his now solitary home, and gazed in 
silence round the desert of his occupation, he carefully counted 
the sum which remained his all in this world : he who had 
gone before had left nothing to increase the stock, and his whole 
fortune amounted to the immense sum of about three thousand 
pounds — a mere vegetation for life ; and this was all that re- 
mained from the wreck of a much finer property. 

For some time after his last relative’s death, and his disap- 
pointments, Douglass led a retired life in a country village in 
England, the name of which we shall call Wilmington, and 
which was distant but a few miles from the metropolis. Of all 
monotonous lives, for a man who had travelled over nearly the 
whole world, that residence was the worst ; the bickering scan- 
dal, which is inseparable from the small communities in the 
country, had very few charms for him ; — in short, he cared not 
one straw whether Miss Jemima Wilkins had grown unex- 
pectedly stout, and the next morning “ most miraculously reco- 
vered her shape;” or whether Miss Clarissa Smith had eloped 
with the sexton of the village, and thus, by the kind offices of 
the last attendants of us all, buried her reputation in a grave pre- 
pared by her tempter. Douglass attended the village church 
with punctuality ; and he did it more with the desire — the fatal 
failing of the idle — of destroying a few hours, than under the 
idea of a religious obligation. It so happened that near the 
pulpit was a pew capable of holding only two ; and as Douglass 
wished to borrow as much importance upon as economical a 


6 


WALSINGHAM, 


principle as possible, he took both seats, and sat alone in all his 
grandeor, to the yery great annoyance of several of his most 
sincere and affectionate friends. One day in winter, when coun- 
try churches are neither the warmest nor the driest of brick 
buildings, just as the clergyman had given out his text, and the 
rustle of leaves had subsided, occasioned by the young ladies 
hunting for the chapter and verse as if to catch the preacher in 
an error, the heavy footsteps of an elderly man were heard as 
he walked a few paces into the interior. Every eye was in- 
stantly directed towards the stranger ; and notwithstanding the 
place, curiosity expressed itself in whispers, and the attention 
of the congregation was turned towards the old gentleman. 

He wore a rather old acquaintance in the shape of a great-coat, 
and which certainly would have been none the worse for a hot 
iron and a piece of brown paper. He seemed to be fatigued 
with his walk, and leaned over a pew which would have con- 
tained two more than inhabited it. He gave that intelligible look 
at the inmates, as much as to say, “ Let me in but Christian 
charity was not the leading principle of the old w'omen, who 
began immediately to spread themselves out, thereby apparently 
occupying the whole of the pew, and looking up significantly, 
as much as to respond, “Only see how you would incommode 
us!” The poor old gentleman advanced a little farther; but 
there seemed a general fear of contamination or of rheumatism, 
for some small rain had fallen, and his rough coat seemed like 
plants covered with the morning dew. (Brummel once remarked, 
that he had caught cold by being put in a room with a damp 
stranger.) The intruder was evidently rather deaf, for he kept 
his right hand to his ear, making a kind of trumpet, and twisting 
his mouth over to the left side with the intention of opening the 
tube of hearing as much as possible, he continued to advance 
towards the pulpit by slow and measured paces, (for the clergy- 
man dropped his voice at the conclusion of his sentence in such 
a manner as to be nearly inaudible,) until he reached Douglass. 
He instantly opened the door, and receiving a bow of acknow- 
ledgment, the stranger took his seat and continued to pay the 
greatest attention to the discourse. When the blessing was 
given and the congregation on the stir, the new acquaintance 
offered his hand, which was instantly taken ; and as Douglass 
walked out of the church, the stranger placed his arm within 
his, — and although Douglass felt that the coat of the stranger and 
his were not made by the same tailor, and that one was new and 
the other old, yet he somehow felt a pride at having done a 


THE GAMESTER. 


7 


commonly civil action, more particularly as his neighbours had 
acted in a contrary manner. Douglass thought he observed the 
sneers of some of his old female friends, and the gibes and 
laughs of the younger ; for when the old gentleman put his hat 
on his head, he stood as good a representation of a bankrupt 
clothesman as Rag Fair could produce. If this man has no mo- 
ney, thought Robert, he does not act up to the advice, “ Never 
be poor and show poor.” 

For some time the stranger was silent. He appeared more 
infirm than Robert had supposed, and he leaned as heavily on his 
arm as a lame man does on a crutch. At last he spoke, and 
there was a mildness in his manner that was captivating in the 
extreme. 

“ I am,” said he, addressing Douglass, “ much obliged to you 
for your civility ; for although it is said that in the house of 
God all are equal, yet those ladies seemed to think otherwise. 
They are fools for their pains ! — they might have done a more 
gracious act than in denying rest to the weary, or in hindering 
one who cannot remain much longer in this world from hearing 
comfortably the voice and the instruction of the clergyman. 
Pray what is your name ?” said the old gentleman. 

“ Robert Douglass.” 

“ Have you no other Christian name but Robert?” 

“None,” replied Robert. 

“The name,” continued the elderly gentleman, “is not un- 
known to me ; for, many years since, when I was wrecked near 
Madras, I received much attention from a gentleman of that 
name.” 

“ It was ray father,” replied Robert. 

I’he old gentleman stopped, looked at him long in the face, 
unheeding the titters of those who passed, and who, like all idle 
blockheads, seemed to wish to be informed of what wonderful 
conversation could take place between two men. “ Your father 
must be numbered with the dead, I should imagine ; for had he 
lived to this day, he would have been about eighty-four, — an 
age few attain who have lived for thirty-two years in that coun- 
try : but he was a strong, temperate, and active-minded man.” 

“ He has been dead about six years,” replied Robert. 

“ He ought to have died a wealthy man,” said the stranger, 
“ for he held high situations, and although he lived like a nabob, 
he must have left some lacs of rupees. And you,” he continued, 
“ how comes it that you are buried alive in this village ! You 
should be more actively employed than in the tattling company 
of old maidens or the solitary walk of a churchyard.” 


8 


WALSINGHAM, 


“My life has been unfortunate, and that which I inherited,**' 
replied Robert, “is almost gone — all but a bare sufficiency: I 
was robbed of it, plundered of it, and the perjurer lives and 
flourishes.” 

“ The way of the world, sir,” replied the stranger : “ your 
thief is a nobleman until the gallows exalts him above his pro- 
per sphere. But did you gamble, did you lose it at play ? — tell 
me the truth, sir.” 

“I never played a card in my life,” he replied. “ I lost my 
money by a tissue of misfortunes, by the operation of a cruel 
law, by the ignorance of my adviser, by the perjuries of others.” 

“ Nothing more common,” replied the stranger: “false wit- 
nesses are as common in England as blackberries; it is of late 
years become a profession. But the law would ruin any man 
in the expenses upon justice.” 

“And therefore,” resumed Robert, “as I cannot hold up my 
head where I once could do so, I have retired to this village; 
and am not sorry I have done so, since it affords me the plea- 
sure of welcoming an old friend of my father’s. This is my 
house: though small, it is convenient; and although I am 
obliged to forego the luxuries, yet I have the necessaries of life. 
Pray, walk in, sir; and if you are inclined to pass some time 
in this retreat, allow me to offer you a bed, and whatever my 
humble roof contains. But as I have made you acquainted 
with my name, will you allow me to know that which must 
have been familiar to my father?” 

The stranger walked in without answering; he placed his hat 
on a peg, shook the wet and rubbed the dirt from his coat, hung 
it up, pulled the tails down to avoid any wrinkles, produced an 
old pocket-handkerchief and flourished it over his hat, pocketed 
his gloves, wiped his feet, and then walked into a small front 
parlour. Instead of warming his hands, he began to take off 
some of the coals, until he left the mere skeleton of a fire, al- 
though he shivered with cold. He took up so close a position 
as to endanger his inexpressibles. 

“ You are extravagant, Mr. Robert, — that is the name, ay ?” 
and he took out an old almost worn-out pocket-book, and after 
rubbing some animation into his hands he wrote down, 
“ Robert, the son of John Douglass.” “ Now,” he continued, 
“ who is your banker, or your lawyer, or any body you know 
in London where I may find or hear of you ; because if you 
come that way I shall be most happy to see you, and I sometimes 
like to make inquiries for my friends instead of their being 


THE GAMESTER. 


9 


obliged to hunt me up. But come near the fire; you must be 
cold so far away.” 

It was quite evident to Robert that his friend was a character, 
and although he wished him any where else than in the place of 
which he had possessed himself, for he was a screen when it 
was least wanted, yet he resolved to humour him to the height 
of his bent. 

The conversation soon took a much more extended range 
than finding fault; and when five o’clock came, they had tried 
many subjects, and amongst others gambling. — “ Of all vices,” 
said the stranger, “ this is the worst. The libertine may be 
reclaimed; the drunkard may listen to the warnings of disease; 
the prodigal may become sensible of the necessity of frugality ; 
the liar may see the beauty of truth ; the reprobate may be 
charmed by virtue : but the gambler never can be reclaimed, 
I speak not now of those who idle away, or while away, 
whichever you like, an hour, holding thirteen pieces of painted 
pasteboard, and putting down in silence the same colour and 
kind as their adversaries might have played ; I speak not of the 
innocent amusement of a round-table party, or of those who, to 
gratify curiosity, pay the penalty of being inquisitive ; but I 
speak of the real downright gamester, whose only occupation 
is play — who dreams of hazard, who awakes but to rattle the 
dice, and calculates nothing but chances — whose whole existence 
consists in robbing, or perhaps wishing to possess himself of the 
property of another — to whom the ravings of the ruined are 
music, whose enjoyment is purchased by the sacrifice of others, 
whose smiles are provoked by the tears of the distressed, 
whose whole soul and body is^ bent upon the destruction of his 
neighbour for the aggrandizement of himself. That man is 
beyond the reach of redemption. Gambling is to the mind 
what opium is to the body ; deprive the one or the other of the 
now necessary excitement, and the patient dies. I do not speak 
these words as idle loungers retail the borrowed sentences of 
great writers, — too well I know the consequences from the hor- 
ror I have experienced : I lost my only son from this infernal 
vice, and painful as it is to me to recall the bitter lesson, yet I 
shrink not from the task of warning others from that destructive 
path. My poor, poor boy ! yes, willingly would I lay down 
those riches, which make me the envy of my neighbours, for 
the {)leasure of again folding you in my arms ; and as I bathed 
your face from the tears of my heart, pour out my blessings and 
forgiveness on your repentant head ! But he is gone Tor ever ! 


10 


WALSINGHAM, 


never nnore shall I gaze upon his face, never more shall I listen 
to the animated description which youth gives when pleasure is 
the subject; but now an old decrepid pilgrim, fast verging to 
that end where I shall again rest near him, and where the staff 
of age shall be thrown aside, and the quiet of the Christian’s 
grave obtained.” Here the old gentleman’s feelings got the 
better of his resolution, and after wiping his eyes and going to 
the window with the intention of concealing his emotion, he 
returned again to his seat, and taking Robert by the hand, he 
said : “ After dinner I will hold up a mirror which shall scare 
you, if you are a gambler; I will convince you of the folly, the 
madness, the iniquity of the act ; and as I am already wearied, 

I will accept your offer of a bed. My portmanteau is at the 
public-house where I alighted as the coach passed through. I 
had intended proceeding onwards to-night to Cheltenham ; but 
I am feeble and ill, and want the requisite stamina for the un- 
dertaking.” Saying which, he arose, and taking down his 
great-coat, he again removed some few specks of dirt, and was 
proceeding to wear it, when Robert suggested that as he was 
younger, he could go and have the portmanteau conveyed to 
his house. “ No,” he replied, “ I will do it myself and al- 
diough faltering in his steps, he crossed the street, and shortly 
afterwards Robert saw him return carrying his own luggage, and 
tottering fearfully at every step. 

From the words which had escaped him, and the extreme 
contradiction between his expressions and his apparent condition, 
Robert was anxious if possible to glean some records of his 
life. His name he had carefully concealed ; his portmanteau 
was without an address; his hat had the word “ Golgotha,” the 
place of a skull, marked therein ; and his pocket-handkerchief 
had hardly a corner whereon to fix an initial; — yet had he 
talked of the wealth which made others envious, he had hinted 
that he would lay down all for one glimpse of his departed son, 
and Ids conversation was so much above the common run of 
familiar phrases that Robert was lost in conjecture. It was 
evident he was of a miserly turn : the attention to his coat and 
hat, the manner in which he deprived himself of the fire, the 
niggard care with which he fed the flame, all convinced Robert 
that if he had a fortune, it had been one of the many saved, not 
made. 

During his absence, Robert mounted two bottles of good old 
port, and placed them not far from the fire. The evening was 
closing in, and the drizzling rain rendered it more obscure than 


THE GAMESTER. 


11 


was usual at that season of the year. The little fire was 
stirred, which Robert ventured to increase; and when the cur- 
tains were drawn, the shutters fastened, the two candles 
lighted, the table-cloth clean, and the silver polished, Robert 
flattered himself, (for he afterwards looked back with some satis- 
faction upon the remembrance of that evening,) although the 
home was small, it was comfortable, and while the wind in- 
creased, and the rain fell in torrents, he and his aged companion 
were sheltered from both, and in the enjoyment of all that the 
frugal could require. 


12 


WALSINGHAM^ 


CHAPTER II. 

Douglass directed the servant, a rather plnmp-looking red- 
armed country-girl, to assist the stranger with his load ; and 
shortly he heard him stumping about over his head. The maid 
was instructed to tell him that the sheets were before the kitchen 
fire, and begged to know if he would have one in his room. 
This last he refused in a sullen manner, saying that three fires 
in a house were sufficient to warm Windsor Castle. Douglass 
resolved not to make any addition to his usual Sunday’s cheer, 
which consisted of a piece of roast-beef, some bursting pota- 
toes, and a Yorkshire-pudding : a small plum-pudding, was to 
form the centre of the repast, whilst some apples and dried fruit 
brought up the rear. 

It was just six o’clock when the stranger entered the parlour ; 
and no man could have recognised, in the clean gentlemanly 
deportment, the ragman resurrectionist of the morning. His 
hair, white by nature, had been carefully powdered, and his 
whole appearance would have done credit to a finished courtier. 
Douglass now saw what a tailor and a powder-puff could do for 
a man : the stiff air of the first acquaintance was superseded by 
an easy smile, his manner had changed with his habits, and 
scarcely ever could Robert remember to have seen a gentleman 
at his age who had fewer of the dirty appendages of seventy. 
With a good appetite, seeing he was most heartily welcome, he 
began his dinner ; and although the fire burned brightly, and the 
sherry and the port were produced, he never once made a remark 
upon the extravagance of the repast. He asked if Robert was 
generally as comfortable as he appeared to be ; and being as- 
sured that he had made no addition to his dinner, the stranger 
expressed himself pleased, and his heart soon began to warm 
with the wine. 

The frugal fare finished, Robert begged him to accept of a 
large arm-chair, and to turn towards the fire. They drew the 
table a little nearer, and placing the port wine within reach of 
both, might have challenged the world to have shown a happier 
couple, at least in appearance. It was one of those delectable 
December evenings when the rain seemed to come from a fire 


THE GAMESTER. 


13 


man’s engine, and falling with such regularity on the windows, 
that a novice might fancy the winter was employed to wash 
away the dust of the summer, and that the task was not easily 
performed. 

“ I have not known for five years the pleasure I experience 
at this moment,” began the stranger : “ a kind calm satisfaction 
steals over my heart, and life, which this morning I would 
have laid down without paying a doctor’s fee to have avoided so 
doing, now seems worth preserving. It is five years since I 
lost my only child : he was six-and-twenty years of age, and a 
handsomer man breathed not in Europe. From that hour I be- 
came a weed thrown upon the wide ocean of existence, if car- 
ried by the current north or south I cared not; I wandered over 
the world a poor old miserable being, I hated the society of men, 
and I dreaded that of the other sex ; I became indiflferent as to 
my dress, the luxuries of life I detested, and when I heard the 
laugh and merriment of others, I flew from it like a stricken 
deer with the barbed arrow rankling in its side. For five years 
I have never felt the ease, the comfort, the Relief of the load I 
carried, that I do at this minute ; and such is the extraordinary 
change which lias crept over me, that I hardly feel inclined to 
hold up the mirror to you which before dinner I had promised 
to produce, in order to warn you from the dreadful, dangerous 
path of gambling.” 

Robert begged the stranger on no account to return to his sor- 
rows, but if possible to forget them, and for once afford him the 
gratification of believing that he had been instrumental to his 
happiness. 

“ No, no,” he replied ; “ we have all our duties to perform 
in this life, and mine is to save the purchase of experience in 
others. And now to my task : the story is long, the subject is 
painful, but the moral is good. 

“After my having remained,” he began, “ a bachelor until I was 
fifty-five years of age, I conceived a violent passion for a lady 
of thirty, who at the expiration of six weeks became my wife. 
About a year after my marriage, my wife was safely delivered 
of a male child, which was christened Henry. His early youth 
was not distinguished by any very particular circumstance : he 
grew up to manhood without being a poet at twelve, or a sailor 
at thirteen. The great error / made : and that was, not obliging 
him to have a profession. I had in India amassed an ample 
fortune, and the settlements on my wife, which must have de- 
scended to him, were sufiicient to have gratified the vanity of 

VOL. I. 2 


14 


WALSINGHAM, 


even a nobleman. To this first error of mine 1 am inclined to 
attribute all the mischief which followed his steps. There is 
no mistake more fatal than the encouragement of idleness: it is, 
as the copy says, the root of all evil, I never knew an idle man 
who, if he escaped burthening his neighbours, avoided being 
vicious : the mind that is not directed to one object, generally 
neglects all, or only flippantly skims the surface over which it 
hurries. The first consequence of idleness was love. Love, 
as Johnson says, has no power but over 'those it finds un- 
employed : so it occurred that rny son Henry at the age of 
nineteen imagined himself in love with the second daugh- 
ter of a respectable clergyman, who was encumbered with a 
large family, and not a very ample fortune. On my discovering 
this fatal step, I opposed all the authority of a parent. It has 
been urged by some autliors, that, providing no blot is upon the 
fair fame of the lady, and that an equality of birth is beyond a 
doubt, the parent has no sufficient grounds for withholding his 
consent: but the man who first circulated this erroneous doc- 
trine contributed his portion of mischief to the world ; for if the 
law does not consider the act of a minor valid, it is because 
that law imagines the mind not sufficiently formed, and con- 
sequently leaves him under the direction of the parent. The 
more I opposed this foolish match, the more resolutely he main- 
tained his determination to gain his point. I loved — dearly, 
fondly loved him, and his mother doted with maternal affection 
on her offspring: never had we differed in.opinion, and now we 
both were the ruin of our son from this ill-placed affection. He 
argued, and justly, that the daughter of a clergyman of the Es- 
tablished Church was equal to any man in rank ; and in this, as 
I am no leveller of the church, no overthrower of its ancient 
establishment, no violator of its rights orpurloiner of its wealth, 
I fidly and frankly acknowledged it was the youth of both par- 
ties, and their exact equality of age, which caused my dissent: 
for although the woman may be of a sufficient age at nineteen, 
and it is dangerous in most cases to allovv them a settled plan of 
life before marriage, and although I would rather they married 
at that age or twenty than any other, yet I did not consider this 
argument as applicable to my son ; for no man should marry 
until he is past his thirty-fourth year: — the mind is then pro- 
perly formed, the dearly-bought experience of youth will guide 
him steadily through life, and his affections, not the hasty ebul- 
lition of youth, will be lasting and sincere : besides which, at 
the age of forty the woman would be verging upon wrinkles, 
whilst the man would be in the «f Hfe. I look a raiddel 


THE GAMESTER. 


15 


path, — since I found objection, positive objection— only likely 
to hasten the event. I proposed that they should wait until he 
was of age, and then, if their minds and affections remained un- 
altered, 1 would celebrate his arriving at maturity and his mar- 
riage on the same day. In the mean time he was to travel 
abroad, and thus rub off a little of the rust which seemed to" 
clog his understanding. 

“ This plan appeared to give general satisfaction, and my 
son, after vowing all vows of constancy, departed with a friend, 
an old schoolfellow, but who was nearly eight years his senior 
in life, for the alleged purpose of crossing to France, and ex- 
tending his trip to Italy. I blessed him at pajting, his mother 
hung upon his neck, the tears of all were shed abundantly, and 
even now— but I am childish and childless — I cannot restrain 
these burning drops which course so rapidly down my poor old 
furrowed face. He had never deceived me, he had never told 
me a falsehood, — he had ever been candid, ingenuous, open. 
He promised to remain abroad for two years ; he had unlimited 
credit — in short, there was nothing left undone to render him 
comfortable and respectable. Imagine, sir,”— said the old man, 
his face crimsoning with vexation, “ imagine, I say, my horror, 
my surprise, my disgust, — most undisguised disgust, when I 
heard that the carriage I had purchased for his comfort, that 
very night contained the person he had abjured for two years ; 
and that, instead of the Continent, he had taken the North 
road, was married, and most seriously repentant before a week 
had elapsed : 

‘ The lovely toy so fiercely sought, 

Had lost its charm by being caught,* 

as Byron says ; he found himself shackled, hampered, tied to a 
stake for life. 

“ Repentance ever comes too late ; but his was sincere. He 
wrote a most affectionate letter, praying us to forgive him, and 
I need scarcely say that we did so; he and his bride were re- 
ceived into our house, — for we thought it more advisable to 
guide his mind in the right way than to leave it to the meander- 
ings of its own fickleness. They managed the first two months 
pretty well, the families became intimate, and I found in the 
excellent disposition and well-informed mind of the clergyman 
every thing to admire. It was, however, about this time that 
both parties spoke often of a Continental trip, and once more 
W'Bs the carriage laden for that route.' As his allowances were 


16 


WALSINGHAM, 


large, there was no occasion to starve the cause. We saw them 
go with hope and spirit, high and fresh : they started, and ar- 
rived safe in that sink of iniquity, Paris. 

“ It is but justice to say that Henry was as idle as the father 
of all mischief could have wished. His mode of life was disre- 
putable in the extreme: he could not study, but he would lie 
for hours on the sofa smoking those abominations, cigars. Rolled 
up in a fanciful dressing-gown, with yellow slippers — and even 
Turkish in imagination, I verily believe he esteemed it a crime 
to ‘ think’— hour after hour of the most brilliant part of life was 
consumed in this dirty, disgusting, unmanly habit, and one 
might as well have slept on the counter of a tobacconist’s shop 
as reclined a head upon his pillow. Nothing tends more to en- 
sure love than decency and cleanliness : Swift has said 

‘ If decency brings no supplies 
Opinion falls, and beauty dies 

and the man who indulges in the misnamed gratification of put- 
ting the smoke into his mouth for one moment in order to puff 
it out the next, must find a partner equally ignorant with the 
Turkish women, and equally under authority, to either sanction 
or allow it. 

“ She was one taught to place all confidence in her husband ; 
and whilst her eyes were dazzled with the gaudiness of my son’s 
equipage, and the homage paid to her beauty, she overlooked 
the annoyance which then she could not appreciate. But now 
she lived in an atmosphere of tobacco ; she was haunted by the 
idle footsteps of her husband ; he lounged about the rooms like 
an unquiet spirit ; he could neither devote an hour to a book, or 
a quarter to a letter; he resembled an everlasting steam-boat in 
motion, and was winded afar from his smoke and liis smell. 
But still there was no sin in him ; the vice, the radical root was 
in his heart, and he soon felt its influence. ‘ My dear,’ said his 
wife to him, ‘ why don’t you go out and amuse yourself? surely 
Paris has novelty, — novelty is always desirable; go, my dear, 
to Pere Lachaise, the Louvre, or wander amongst this gay peo- 
ple on the Boulevards.’ — ‘ Not I,’ he would answer ; ‘ I have 
no curiosity to see a few bedizened grave-stones, or to read the 
general lying epitaphs with which every mother thinks fit to 
compliment her son, or every daughter to daub for a parent. 
What am I to see in the Louvre but a parcel of pictures ? and 
to be obliged to turn over a catalogue to find out the subject. 


THE GAMESTER. 


17 


Besides, if I had no other objection but the following, — it would 
be fatal, they do not permit smoking.’ 

“Poor Eliza, the best, the tenderest, the most enchanting of 
her sex, only responded by a deep sigh : she looked at him, 
she watched the working of his countenance, and in spite of 
her general guarded manner, a smile of pity crossed her face. 

‘ Ay, ay, I see,’ said my son, ‘ you are getting preciously tired 
of me, and think, no doubt, that there is some truth in the pro- 
verb, “Marry in haste, and repent at leisure.” I wish that child 
of yours was born, and then you would have something to 
mind, without bothering me by your observations and advice. 
Oh, Lord ! how thankful I should be if some Christian of my 
acquaintance would come to this cursed outlandish place ! — Ah, 
now you cry ! Why, what the devil have I said to make you 
cry? Is this your love? is this the way you are pleased to 
show your contentment? — or, rather, is this the mode by which 
you seek to upbraid me V 

“ The poor little wife said not a word, but she hastily endea- 
voured to dry her eyes and to force a smile upon her cheeks ; 
but Nature was true to herself, and deception had not learned to 
conquer her. ‘ Well,’ said my son, ‘since my presence gives 
you pain, I will relieve you by my absence.’ — ‘ What time, my 
dear, will you return to dinner V said that charming creature. 

‘ Oh, six or eight, or perhaps not at all,’ was the reply. ‘ Why, 
are you so dependent upon me, that you must have me to feed 
you, or to tickle you ? I believe it is true, that “ women are but 
children of a larger growth.” There is a looking-glass and a 
sugar-plum, and you ought to be in paradise.’ With this un- 
feeling, insolent remark, he had his great-coat placed upon his 
shoulders, his gloves given him ; but he actually exerted himself 
so much, that he placed his own hat on his own head. 

“ I have merely mentioned this conversation in order to show 
’ that boys are not intended for husbands, and that a person ought 
to know his own mind before he seeks to govern others. Love 
is a very pretty moth ; but each touch brushes away its beauties. 
— However, to proceed. 

“ On that fatal day when the conversation above mentioned 
took place, it did occur that my son found one of his schoolfel- 
lows. He seems to have rejoiced in an excuse to be absent from 
his wife, with whom he was thoroughly satiated ; and that 
evening, after dining with his friend, he attended a soiree given 
by the mother, and there saw the sister, a girl of about seven- 
teen, described as lovelv in the extreme. His mind, without 

2 


18 


WALSINGHAM, 


occupation, soon gave way to the new pleasure of this girl’s 
society ; he remained until the last, he hardly quitted her for a 
moment, and when he retraced his steps to his hotel, situated in 
the Rue Richelieu,- he had already entertained thoughts which 
were too sure to ripen in the soil which only received one ob- 
ject. In the mean time his expenses were increased — presents 
were purchased of great value, and after two or three weeks al- 
most living in his friend's house, and having perfectly neglected 
his home, his wife, his all — but his cigar, and having driven this 
new attachment to the very Pere Lachaise and Louvre he before 
despised, it was evident that his heart had received an im- 
pression very likely to erase that occasioned by the charms of 
his wife. 

“ Meantime, the gentle, meek Eliza was slowly recovering the 
sight of which love had deprived her: she found herself per- 
fectly neglected, for when in her society, he was invariabljr 
hasty, morose, unkind, ungrateful. It was her letter to her sister 
that first gave me uneasiness ; for although I had watched with 
some alarm the increased amount of his expenditure, yet as he 
never had mentioned one word on the subject of gambling, I 
confess I did not anticipate the storm about to burst over our 
heads. In the letter written by Eliza to her sister, there was a 
marked difference of manner: instead of the gay and animated 
description — the numerous retailings of anecdotes, the follies and 
the fashions, with which the letters of ladies are usually filled, it 
was a cold production, in which it was evident that apprehension 
had triumphed over affection ; but there was such lurking love, 
and such fear of losing it, that when it was shown to me, I re- 
member being obliged to leave the room to avoid the expression 
of my fears. That letter I have preserved, and here it is. I 
preserved it in the first instance from admiration of the writer ; 
and now, as a reproach to myself for not having instantly crossed 
the water to have reclaimed my son. But parents are as blind 
as lovers, and we are slow to believe what we wish to discredit. 
I will read it to you : it is in vain you would urge me to desist ; 
it is a punishment I owe myself, and a warning I owe to you.’’ 
He then read as follows : 

“ Paris. 

“ My ever dearest Mary, 

“ My last letter, written one short week since, was penned 
under very different circumstances from this : the excitement 
occasioned by visiting strange places, of listening to a strange 
people, and of following strange fashions, is passed ; now I feel 


THE GAMESTER. 


19 


quite tired of the place and the people, and find myself alone in 
the midst of a populous city. But it is quite the contrary with 
Henry, who at first remained entirely at home, but now is 
estranged from it. His mornings, noons, and almost his nights, 
are spent with a family of the name of Stanhope ; the brother of 
his admiration having been an old schoolfellow of Henry’s, who 
is just emancipated from his college. I cannot tell you how 
painfully Jealous I have become ; for I see— even / see a total 
alteration of his manner. Instead of the eager morning saluta- 
tions, the constant kind attention, and the unremitted affection,! 
find him cold, reserved, silent, and sometimes angry. He seems 
to have left me entirely ; or when I am so fortunate as to occupy 
one moment’s conversation, I am sure to hear of the charms, the 
unrivalled charms of this Louisa. Had this blow come sud- 
denly, I should have sunk under it ; but it has approached gra- 
dually, and I as gradually became habituated to his absence. In 
vain I have asked him to return to, or let me return to you ; for 
although I know I am wrong in even asking to leave him, yet I 
feel I cannot much longer bear this silent neglect without a mur- 
mur; and, oh ! my dearest Mary, it is vain I should attempt to 
describe the feelings which creep over me. Oftentimes I think 
how foolish, how weak, how woman-like are my fears ; because 
I see this girl surrounded by her family and her brothers — they 
know that Henry is married, and she likewise knows it, and yet 
I cannot help feeling that they may be thrown oflf their guard 
from the very knowledge of the fact. Then that I, who adored 
him, loved liim, cherished him, — yes, my God ! that ever I can 
entertain fears of his constancy or of his affection ! — I had writ- 
ten thus far, when Henry came home, flushed with animation, 
and in a humour to which he has long been a stranger. It ap- 
pears that Mr. Stanhope took him to a place called Frascati’s, 
and that Henry, who has not the smallest inclination to gamble, 
threw down a napoleon, — a kind of fee which he thought requi- 
site to pay for his intrusion, on a table, the name of the game 
being strange to him. After walking about the room quite heed- 
less of the stake, he returned to the table, and was astonished to 
find a heap of gold and notes lying there. One of tlie servants 
of the establishment pointed to the money, and told him that his 
original stake had doubled itself to that amount; upon which he 
very wisely withdrew, and came home in so good a humour 
that I almost wish he would occasionally visit that place, of 
which previously to this day I had conceived the most serious 
horror. His winnings amounted to five hundred and twelve na- 


20 


WALSINGHAM, 


poleons, the colour on which he placed his napoleon having won 
nine times following. — But, Mary, to think for one moment that 
the paltry sum above mentioned, and which by his signature he 
may procure every day of the week, should have rendered him 
happy, and excited him so much, is another painful idea. Every 
thing seems to please him, however trifling, but myself; — and 
yet I am ungrateful in my thoughts, for he kissed me fervently 
just now, and is going, dear good fellow ! to dine at home to- 
day, and his young friend is coming also. — The fashions of the 
day are still the §ame,’ &;c. &;c. 

“ The rest of the letter,” said the old gentleman, folding up 
the despatch, “ is on the subjects on which ladies generally 
write one to another, ^ — family news, bonnets, new-invented 
gloves, and a treasure of a shoemaker or a lady’s maid ; but in 
the part I have read to you, you will trace the first false step 
since his marriage ; — yon will see that, having married before 
his mind was ripened into a steady affection, before he could ap- 
preciate the devotion of one of the most lovely of her sex, he 
had given way to a new passion, he had allowed his heart to 
lean towards another, and he had taught himself to believe that 
his wife was not necessary to his happiness. This strong ex- 
citement remained until gambling, like a stronger poison, drove 
out, or for a moment killed, the other ; and you will find that in 
destroying partially the second love, it entirely quenched the 
first, and left his wife a prey to anguish and to distrust.” 


THE GAMESTER. 


31 


CHAPTER III. 

The old gentleman was considerably exhausted, and he re- 
quired some stimulant to recover him. Robert therefore recom- 
mended the wine; and after wiping his eyes and drinking a 
glass, he started afresh with his anecdote, and thus continued : 

“ It appears that after the dinner mentioned in the letter, 
Henry and his friend agreed to visit the gambling-houses in the 
Palais Royal, finishing the evening at the Salon, the father of 
all the mischief. The same games were played at all, until he 
found himself ushered into the splendid apartments of the Salon 
des Etrangers. Here was a round table on which hazard was 
played, and here my son took a seat, and remained in it until 
two o’clock in the morning. At first he was again successful, 
but latterly he lost back all he had won, with some trifle besides. 

“ He returned to his wife about three o’clock. She had re- 
mained awaiting his arrival : although under all the pain and 
all the sickness to which women are subject during pregnancy, 
yet was she resolved to prove her devotion to him beyond a 
doubt, — even in a gambler’s mind. Finding her still in the 
saloon, Henry, so far from being grateful for the attention, re- 
buked her for her folly, and in a tone of voice at once authorita- 
tive and ungenerous, he desired her to go to bed. His manner 
was that of an enraged tyrant ; he walked hastily to and fro in 
the room, and when she lingered, he even threatened to push 
her from his presence. 

“ ‘ Never, never, dearest Henry, did I expect,’ she said, ‘ to 
hear such words from your lips! — never, when I gave you my 
hand at the altar, did I imagine that six months afterwards you 
would spurn me from you ! I know .your goodness of heart, 
and I feel that your own words will be a greater rebuke to your 
mind than any I could utter even if I would. Kiss me, dearest, 
and I will go. I have been in great pain, and I watched the 
hand of that little watch, your first present to me, hoping for 
your return; but now you are not what you were, or I should 
not have had to solicit that little mark of affection which even 
now you withhold.’ 

“ He looked at her apparently more in sorrow than in anger, 


22 


WALSINGHAM, 


whilst she with her bed candle in one hand advanced the other 
to his shoulder, and holding her pretty face as inviting him to 
kiss her, she remained watching the working of his countenance, 
whilst the smile of hope which played over her pale features 
might have tempted the most obdurate. 

“ ‘ Go, go,’ he said, pushing her gently from him, — ‘ go ; 
and when next you feel indisposed, you had better sleep, than 
spy upon your husband.’ She burst into tears, and left the 
room. Ah, fatal is the word, the voice of unkindness upon the 
heart of the truly affectionate ! How many a man has uninten- 
tionally uttered what his pride forbade him to recall! and how' 
many are made miserable by the mere intonation of voice in the 
person they love ! In vain she endeavoured to conceal her 
distress — her agitation of mind produced a serious sickness, and 
before three days had witnessed the inattention of Henry to a 
sick wife by day, and his absence by night, his hope of becom- 
ing a father had vanished, and the prospect of being a widower 
was more than probable. To me he even neglected to write an 
account of the accident which had occurred ; and although his 
wife constantly sent the maid to urge him to this filial duly, yet 
love, and affection, and duty, and propriety, were dead within 
him, and all were buried in the gambler’s mind. She recovered 
slowly, for she was reserved for many sorrows : — 

‘ Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet.’ 

From the fall of hope in regard to being a mother, she fell into 
a low state of sickness: the indifference — the growing indiffer- 
ence amounting almost to hatred in her husband, the resolution 
with which she endeavoured to bear it, soon completely under- 
mined her beauty and sapped her health ; the attractive powers 
she once possessed were gone, and she had no enticement to 
lure back her fugitive husband but her voice, and he seldom came 
within the reach of that soft persuasive woman, to be recalled 
from his erroneous path. She wrote another letter to Mary, in 
which she more plainly alluded to the severed affection of her 
husband, and once more she mentioned the name of Louisa 
Stanhope; but it was more than evident that she entertained 
some fears that although gambling might have alienated the 
affections of Henry from herself, yet that Louisa still occupied 
some portion of his thoughts and time was certain. This letter 
was never shown to me ; it was agreed by my daughter-in-law’s 
family that I should only become incensed still more against my 


THE GAMESTER. 


23 


son, and they looked forward with hope that the influence of 
their sister might still prove to be of some avail. 

“ In a few words I shall draw you the character of Louisa 
Stanhope. Of her beauty — that fatal gift, I shall merely say, 
that as much perfection as the painter’s art could throw into the 
form and face of Venus might be found in her. She was rather 
dark in complexion, her hair and eyes being as black as night ; 
every feature was correct, and her mouth has been even repre- 
sented as surpassing that of any other woman alive. Her education 
had been neglected — she had been poisoned by novels. How- 
ever light the trash, so long as it contained a love-story, on this 
she fed and fattened. To her, the man who smoked, swore, 
and gambled, was perfection ; and she in vain imagined that the 
hero of romance could be concealed in the demure look, the 
cautious expressions, and the timid manner, which might cover 
the generous and affectionate disposition of mind, or the bold 
and determined courage of the heart. Henry was exactly to her 
imagination ; in him were all the accomplishments of such flip- 
pant folly in perfection : he was handsome, and, like most gam- 
blers, generous ; he was bold, forward, authoritative. It is 
strange how women like such men, for they would rather be 
governed than courted, and he who is bold in love, will very 
seldom fail of success: your timid man always is rebuked; 
your bold man, who seems to have for his motto, ‘ They can 
conquer who believe they can,’ is the surest of his love. Louisa 
saw, and loved him : the impediment of marriage was no bar to 
her affections; she had read of happiness obtained even by such 
rashness, and the more the danger, the more she seemed to court 
it; she encouraged him, she clandestinely accepted his presents, 
and he soon made her the depositary of every sentiment of his 
heart. He was now perfectly estranged from his wife, lie even 
told her that she was painful to his sight. The climax of her 
woes was fast approaching : for two days and two nights she 
never heard or saw him ; the fourth brought her a letter without 
any date, desiring her to return to her parents, as he never more 
intended to see her. The letter mentioned that Louisa Stan- 
hope, now with him, would for ever share his heart, his fortune, 
and his affections.’ This, which would have killed others, par- 
tially restored her to strength and temporary health. Without 
writing one word, she immediately left Paris. She arrived in 
England, and hastening to the quiet retreat of her father, she 
drove to the house about nine o’clock, at which time the pious 
father had assembled his family and his servants, and was im- 


24 


WALSINGHAM, 


ploring the great God of all to shower down his blessings upon 
mankind. No sooner was she liberated from the carriage, than 
she rushed like a maniac to the long-known room ; and as her 
father was about, in rather a subdued tone, to supplicate the 
protection of his Maker, the door was violently thrown open, 
and a loud shriek announced her presence. That shriek was 
re-echoed by all : there, in the midst of them, stood a being un- 
known to any; her features were half concealed by the dis- 
ordered hair, and though visible, were so altered by care and 
sickness, that the parent knew not his own, or the sister the 
being of her affection. ‘ ’Tis me, ’tis Eliza,’ she cried, and fell 
prostrate on the floor: ‘oh, save me! for I am all alone.’ She 
fainted, and fortunately she did so, for such was the horror of 
the scene, that had it continued none could have borne it. 
What followed is beyond description; the scene of wo, of 
misery, of sorrow, baffles all words, all power of delineation. 

“ She was removed instantly, and two days elapsed before 
we knew the worst. I was sent for directly, but I was forbidden 
to see her, — the medical gentleman strictly desired that none 
should be admitted but her mother; and rather would I that she 
never had returned to reason, and to comparative health, than 
have heard from the mouth of my daughter-in-law — from her 
wlio was like my own flesh and blood, the base, unmanly, un- 
generous, horrible, and unnatural behaviour of my son — my only 
boy. Oh, never, never shall I forget the feelings of that mo- 
ment ! I could have stabbed her and smiled, as she poisoned 
the very stream of my existence : I hated with such a hatred 
that uo words can convey, and in the bitter ravings of my maniac 
heart I cursed her for ever and for ever 1 The very intellect 
with wliich God had endowed me was deranged; the very son 
with which he had blessed me was made a villain, too plainly to 
admit of exculpation ; the very daughter whom I loved as my 
own was the harbinger of my wo ! 

“I was conveyed home, and long did I linger in a state which 
deprived me of the management of my affairs, or the remem- 
brance of my sorrows : during that time Eliza died. I have 
been told that excess of grief may sometimes relieve the patient, 
and that when misfortunes come so heavily, the human heart 
can withstand the shock; but her fortitude was gone, and her 
love remained. She lingered and lingered: in vain the good 
father attempted to administer consolation from that source from 
which most can derive it; in vain he pointed to Heaven, and 
prayed that his daughter might receive the blessing of resolution 


THE GAMESTER. 


25 


to withstand the assault ; gradually and gradually life gently 
ebbed away ; she never spoke from the moment that in my mad- 
ness I cursed her, but, surrounded by her family, she fixed her 
steady gaze upon her motlier, and sometimes convulsively 
grasping her hand, she would endeavour to articulate. None 
could distinguish the sounds; the efforts grew weaker and 
weaker, and seven days from the moment of her first discovery 
of the cause she died without a struggle and without a groan. 

“ It was six months from the time of her decease before I was 
allowed to be made acquainted with her death ; and from that 
moment has a cloud hung over my happiness which no light- 
ning will ever dissipate. I will not sorrow you with my sor- 
rows, neither will I call more tears than those which I have seen 
fall during the recital of my anecdote from your eyes. Hard 
must be the heart, and unenviably inclosed within itself, that 
softens not at the miseries of age, or for the misfortunes of the 
virtuous; and he but faintly can appreciate the pleasures of life, 
who neither participates in the woes of others, or whose heart 
is hardened against the misfortunes of his friend. 

“To resume my story, now growing towards its greatest in- 
terest. When I was permitted to resume the management of 
my affairs, I found four letters from my bankers, mentioning my 
account being overdrawn by several thousands of pounds. 
Aware that I could always replace the same at a moment, I 
heeded not the intelligence half so much as I did the cause of 
this lavish expenditure. To me my son had never written since 
his scandalous alliance with that shameless woman: I knew not 
where he was, and I hardly knew how to find him. It occurred 
to me that by stopping his income I should insure detection of 
his abode ; and accordingly, having seen that he it was who had 
drawn such immense sums during so small a space of time, I 
wrote to my bankers, desirihg them to inform Henry that I saw 
no longer any occasion for such an income as he had appropri- 
ated to his use, and that I should stop every supply until he 
returned to me. This letter sealed his fate. But it is requisite 
that I retrace my steps, in order to make you master of the 
subject. 

“ When my son first accomplished his design, he retired to 
Versailles with the sister of his most intimate friend ; but, know- 
ing that I should take such steps as to force him to return to his 
wife, he that day drew a check for the amount of four thousand 
pounds. On receiving it, the bankers wrote me a letter, men- 
tioning the largeness of the sum. This letter arrived the very 

VOL, I. 3 


26 


WALSINGHAM, 


day that I was torn from the dying bed of my daughter, and it 
remained unopened until the expiration of the six months above 
mentioned, — the bankers in the mean time having paid it. 
Shakspeare says, 

‘ Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, 

Or bends with the remover to remove 

and I have never found that great man to be in error. The love 
so suddenly transferred to Louisa was not destined to bex)f very 
long duration. Even now he should have controlled his feelings 
more than in marriage, for he had ruined this second object of 
his heart for ever ; and the only resource she could hope for, by 
which her own wounded pride might be partially relieved, was 
in his unalterable affection and kindness towards her. This I 
say— this reflection should have occupied his thoughts, for he 
had the power of applying an antidote to the worst of poisons. 
It is no trifling act for a woman to do, to leave her friends, her 
parents, her sisters, her reputation, her name, and all for love. 
The man who consents to this wholesale ruin is doubly bound 
to be true to her, or to shelter her ; and he who, having deprived 
the casket of the jewel which was within it, leaves the casket to 
the world’s scorn and obloquy, is such a villain that no pencil 
can portray, or I describe — the female world will excuse any sin 
but this. Even the charms of beauty with which Louisa had 
been cursed were not sufficiently powerful to enchain the affec- 
tions of Henry ; for he became ashamed of himself, and heartily 
disgusted with his own conduct. The papers had conveyed to 
him the intelligence of the death of his wife ; and as his heart 
still beat with existence, a little remorse mingled itself in the 
cup of pleasure, of which already he had drunk to intoxication 
and satiety. With her he mastered his feelings ; but with the 
return to sobriety came the wish for the greater excitement of 
gambling. As the family of the Stanhopes still remained in 
Paris, he felt very insecure in his operations there, for the young 
gentleman who initiated him hung round the table like a fly to 
carrion ; and Henry, fearful — for guilt is always timid — of detec- 
tion, removed his victim to Spa, a place which at that time was 
filled by fashionable idlers, inexorable swindlers, and deter- 
mined gamblers. There he occupied rooms in the Hotel de 
Flandre, certainly the best in the place : the lady took his name, 
and they were received as man and wife. Here it was that the 
first recrimination occurred between them, and it arose from 


THE GAMESTER. 


27 


hope being suddenly blighted. Louisa Stanhope, who, when 
she first absconded from her home, was often heard to say, 

‘ Not Caesar’s Empress would I deign to prove : 

No ! make me mistress to the man I love.’ 

Yet now that the obstacle to their legal union was removed, she 
felt that the performance of that duty vyould most materially tend 
to soften her feelings, and would in some measure restore her to 
the path from which she had swerved. Tlie common people 
say, it is ‘ making an honest woman but, honest or not, she 
felt that she usurped a name which did not belong to her, and 
that Henry, who had ten thousand times declared that in the 
event of his wife’s death he would marry her, would likewise 
experience some pleasure in the fulfilment of his word. But 
Henry had become a villain, and even now would rather have 
shaken ofi’ the burthen which he felt encumbered him. Still 
she loved as few women ever loved ; his voice was to her sweet 
music, his smile was a rapture ; and when he fixed his eyes on 
hers, she was like the bird fascinated by the snake. 

“ ‘ Henry, dearest Henry,’ she said one morning as the bell of 
the Catholic church, close to the hotel, swung its deep tones 
over the valley of Spa, ‘ that bell might remind you of a pro- 
mise you have as yet failed to fulfil, but which I know I have 
only to mention, and you will gratify my not unreasonable or 
unjust request. You remember^ dearest,’ she said, as she laid 
her open hand upon his shoulder, — ‘you remember that under 
the promise of a future marriage I consented to forfeit my own 
and the world’s esteem. -How I have felt this none could tell ; 
but now I feel that by being placed in the proper position of 
your wife, I should be more happy and contented, than as a 
walking falsehood, one who calls herself what she is not, and 
who adds to lier former crimes by imposing wilfully on others. 
It is true that the year which is generally spent in mourning has 
not yet elapsed : but our union can be private ; and, as you have 
long since laid aside the crape and the gloves of outward show, 
you can easily overcome the fashionable fueling, in the good 
and honourable action you w’ould perform.’ 

“ ‘Ay?’ replied Henry. 

“ Struck a little by the insufferable coolness, she again re- 
peated the proposition ; when the unfeeling fellow replied, 

“ ‘ Nonsense, my dear, nonsense ! how can you be married 
at this place? It is true there is a church inVauxhall; but 


28 


WALSINGHAM, 


there is no bishop for a licence, and no priest to perform the 
ceremony. Perhaps you wish me to turn Caiholic, and get 
wedded in that outlandish-looking place opposite ? Be patient, 
my dear.’ 

“ ‘ Patient, Henry, I have been, and still must be. There, 
don’t look so displeased, and I will not remind you of it again 
here. But if you knew how conscience sometimes awakes the 
slumbering virtue which still remains in me — if you did but 
know the satisfaction I should experience by my release from 
my present degradation, you would be the first to lighten thd 
burden I bear, and to restore me to cheerfulness and to myself. 
Thank Heaven, we are taught that repentance, though late, may 
be acceptable ; and I am fully aware how seriously I have in- 
jured my parents and my family by the fatal step I took, and in 
which I am now persevering.’ 

“ ‘I think, my dear,’ replied Henry, ‘ you had better volun- 
teer to preach next Sunday : you would make out a capital case, 
as the lawyers say. There, don’t bother me now ; for I am 
sadly out of humour by the eternal run of ill-luck which seems 
to follow me wherever I go.’ 

“‘And if you could but make home your residence, that an- 
noyance would cease, and you be happy.’ 

“ ‘ Never, he replied ; ‘ that is gone for ever : and so, like 
Goldsmith, “ I must make that happiness I cannot find.” ’ 

“ ‘But why night after night pursue the same fatal occupa- 
tion ? Already have you lost two thousand pounds, and our ex- 
penses here are daily augmenting : cannot you wean yourself 
from that which only occasions hours of uneasiness, sleepless 
nights, and ruined health V 

“ ‘I wish most sincerely I could,’ replied my son, looking 
significantly at Louisa ; ‘ I confess I should be happier if I could 
divest my mind and myself ixom their incumbrances' Saying 
which, he turned round and walked out of the room. 

“ It is a duty I owe Louisa, to confess she was a woman very 
far above the common run of the sex. To a mind naturally 
strong, but unfortunately with a wrong bias, she joined a sweet- 
ness of disposition, a patience under sufferings, a calmness in 
danger, and a courage in adversity, which would make a hero in 
a man ; but she was a woman still, and she felt the neglect, the 
cutting allusion, the cool disregard, most poignantly. It appears 
that her family had traced her, and had written to her, offering 
again to receive her ; and although she tore the letter into the 
smallest pieces, and more fervently kissed a small miniature of 


THE GAMESTER. 


29 


Henry, yet she could not help contrasting the difference between 
the kind and affectionate letter of those she had deceived, and 
the harsh, unmanly, unwarrantable language in him who had 
deceived her: for very plainly she saw that her marriage was 
not likely to lake place for months, if at all ; and that she, like 
all other women who have swerved from virtue, found herself, 
tolerated rather than beloved. With a resignation worthy of a 
better cause, she resolved to wait the result of time ; and, after 
retiring to her room, and weeping away the first feeling of dis- 
pleasure, she again occupied her saloon in all the grandeur of 
solitude, and there worked and worked until the hour of mid- 
night, when my son returned. 

“ The diabolical scowl upon his countenance checked the 
utterance of a welcome which was already upon Louisa’s lips. 
He threw his hat aside, and throwing himself upon the sofa, 
gave vent to his feelings in cursings and execrations both loud 
and deep. He had lost, and lost heavily, — indeed, so much as 
to distress him for present purposes; and thus the conversation 
which followed was not likely to be conducive to peace of mind 
to Louisa, or restoration of temper to himself. 

“ ‘I have kept some tea for you, Henry, my love,* said the 
affectionate girl, ‘ and I would not go to bed until you returned, 
in order that I might see you had it properly made.’ 

“ ‘ I had rather be without it,’ he replied, surlily; ‘for 
although I believe myself to be as arrant a villain as ever lived, 
yet I do not like to lake that for which I cannot pay.’ 

“Louisa smiled and looked at him. 

“ ‘ You smile, do you, little fool! but it is no time for that 
now. I have lost every farthing I have in the world ; — I most 
solemnly declare, that if the crown of the greatest country in 
Europe were mine if I could produce one napoleon, most reli- 
giously do I aver that I have not the wealth required to pur- 
chase It.’ 

“ ‘ Well,’ replied Louisa, ‘ then I would soon see the crown 
on Henry’s head. Take my jewels, those you so liberally 
gave me ; and though I do not part with the smallest trifle you 
ever offered me without regret, yet now, if there is a necessity 
for the sacrifice, take them all. And here is my watch, and all 
but this ring, this dear ring ; with this 1 cannot part until poverty 
forces us from our roof, or Henry is unfaithful.’ 

“ ‘ There, there, Louisa, do not make such a long speech 
about nothing : the jewels will be useful for the present ; but 

3 ^ 


30 


WALSINGHAM, 


as to the watch, you can keep it — but for how long is a matter 
of doubt.’ 

“ ‘ Be careful, dearest, how you dispose of them, or the re- 
port will be over this little place in a moment.’ 

“ ‘ Thank you, madam,, for your advice. I dare say you 
think me such a precious fool as to stand at the hotel-door like 
a Jew pedler, asking the passers-by to purchase my wares. Go 
to bed, do : whenever women talk of any thing but embroidery 
or bonnets, they invariably talk nonsense. I shall go to Brus- 
sels to-morrow alone. You will remain here: and, by way of 
blinding the most acute, you will make up the party of which 
you have often talked, to the waterfall of Coo. Spare no rea- 
sonable expense : I will remit you some money from Brussels, 
and there I shall again draw upon my father to some large 
amount. Perhaps I may be obliged to go over to England ; but 
I hope you have confidence enough in me to know that under 
any circumstances I will never desert you. However, we will 
talk over this to-morrow.’ 

“ That morrow came. In vain Louisa endeavoured to recon- 
cile the parting, even for a day or two, to herself. She felt that 
she was lost to the world, an outcast from society ; and she 
knew that the instant the bubble report that she was Henry’s 
wife burst, then she miahl seek some retreat farther from Eng- 
land, and endeavour to linger out her life in solitude and prayer. 
There was a heart-rending scene at parting. On the part of my 
son, he seemed more wrapped up in himself, his plans, and his 
determination to obtain money from me. He regarded his mis- 
tress as a log of impediment not easily removed. It was at 
that moment his intention to have left her for ever, and her 
quick perception discovered it; but she did not tax him with 
the thought, — she merely implored him to consider what she 
had done for the love of him, how solely she depended upon 
his charity and his affection : and as the. tears trickled down her 
beautiful face, she said, ‘ I could bear any calamity in life but 
being separated from you. Oh, Henry, if you could only 
imagine the dreary hours of expectation which I must while 
away — if you could only feel the loneliness which now I feel, 
you would not thus leave me, when my presence could not im- 
pede your plans ! To your honour I have ceded ray own ; on 
that honour I know I can with confidence trust; and as you 
object to my accompanying you, go, and may Heaven restore 
you to me shortly ! My prayers, if a sinner’s offering can be 
acceptable, shall be for you ; and happy beyond all expression 
of happiness will the hour be that sees you return to me.’ ” 


THE GAMESTER. 


31 


CHAPTER IV. 

The old gentleman seemed to have recovered his elasticity 
of spirits from the infusion of some of mine, and he proceeded 
with his story. The following is the account of that party to 
Coo, which the old gentleman related to Robert the following 
morning. 

“ The waterfall of Coo is about nine miles distantfrom Spa, and 
requires a little patience and perseverance, a strong carriage and 
rather fat sides, to accomplish the distance without either a 
fracture of a bone or a break-down of the vehicle. Although in 
the actual vicinity of this once celebrated and now almost de- 
serted watering-place the inhabitants have done much to attract 
the stranger by culling winding paths through the thick trees 
which encircle the hills ; and although they have two Vauxhalls, 
and a Redouie, in the latter of which is the gambling and the 
balhroom, the theatre and a restaurant ; yet have they omitted 
to remember that men are not sheep to be cooped up in a pen 
and never to wander out of it. Spa may be seen at a glance, 
and two long walks will show all that civilisation has done for 
the sickly and the idle ; it is without any exception the dullest 
abode that ever I remember to have selected in all the years of 
miy wandering life. 

“ According to all previous plans for a visit to this waterfall, 
it was settled to dine there ; and as Louisa had been instructed 
to give an ample entertainment in order to blind suspicion, 
three men were, sent forward early in the morning burihened 
with enough to poison a whole parish. Every mixture which 
ingenuity could twist into a resemblance to wine, with very 
good names burnt upon the corks, and very similar to champagne 
as far as seals, wax, bottles, and colour were concerned, was 
packed up and sent: whilst the principal actors, — all of whom, 
excepting the ladies, had plundered or been concerned in the 
plunder of Henry at the gaming-table, — now assisted to lighten 
his purse by emptying the various bottles and swallowing the 
numerous good things which the master of the Hotel de Flan- 
dre had selected. 

“ The party set forward about ten in the morning, and soon 
left the regular ride which leads to the three spas in the vicinity 
of the town, to strike into an open country on which the hand 


32 


WALSINGHAM, 


of agriculture has never been concerned. Over these hills, 
which command a fine and extensive view, the party proceeded, 
enlivened occasionally by the bright sallies of wit of one of the 
party, and roused into merriment from the incessant dullness of 
another: in fact, one was llie butt, one was the target, at which 
the sharp arrows of ridicule were directed, — and certainly they 
never fell thicker or more poisoned than on that day. In vain, 
however, Louisa endeavoured to hold up the head of cheerful- 
ness ; she knew she was surrounded by those whose exuberance 
of spirits arose from the cause of her depression, and she 
looked at them with the eye of Undisguised distrust. To the 
ladies she was particularly attentive, although she thought a 
kind of distance was observed which previous to the beginning 
of the party of pleasure was never practised, and she very 
shortly accounted in her own mind for the change. 

“ She had observed a young man of my son’s acquaintance, 
who enjoyed all the luxury of mustachios, and who never be- 
longed to the army, horse or foot, buzzing about from lady to 
lady, and in low accents communicating something which seemed 
to attract particular attention. Louisa’s quick eyes soon disco- 
vered that she was the object of observation, and it required not 
the scrutiny of a clever woman to remark that the frequent 
glances of the ladies were not exactly of that lender sort amount- 
ing to pity ; in fact, they, conveyed an idea of disdain. She 
needed not to probe her heart to find a' reason, yet she well 
knew that she was herself unknown to the mischief-making 
swindler, who had almost invited himself to the parly, and who 
now occupied his whole time and ingenuity in making it a 
failure. The ladies, as opportunities occurred, whispered to 
each other ; some smiled at the intelligence, but others allowed 
their pretty faces to be clouded by suspicion. The party was 
thus spoiled almost before it began ; and certainly, from what 
did transpire, it was evident that had not curiosity overcome 
propriety, one half would have returned home without ever 
reaching the waterfall. With the practised manner of a woman 
of the world, Louisa pretended not to heed either the whispers 
or the looks of her company; but summoning a false cheerful- 
ness she attracted the notice of the hairy-lipped whisperer, and 
soon enticed him to ride near her ; when she observed suddenly, 
‘that she felt it as a bad compliment that his discourse should 
have been directed to all of the party to the exclusion of herself, 
and begged that she might be made a partaker of his wit and his 


THE GAMESTER. 


33 


I news.’ To this he responded quickly, by asking * if she was 
\ ever in Paris V 

“ Had a ihunderbolt fell at her side, it could not have changed 
[ her features more. Unprepared for the question, which in itself 
' was nothing, but in the manner of asking the secret, as she 
iinaorined only of her own heart, her quickness of mind was not 
sufficient to hasten the. flow of blood to her face, which remained 
I as pale as the figure of death on horseback. This did not escape 
I either the questioner or the listeners, and, whatever might have 
1 been their suspicions they were evidently confirmed. She ral- 
j lied, however, and replied in the affirmative; when the itinerant 
vender of scandal rode close to her side, and leaning familiarly 
i towards her horse, fixing his eyes upon his victim, he said in a 

• low voice quite inaudible to the rest, ‘ You were married in 

• Paris, I believe V 

“ Although the young gentleman thought the peculiar stress 
he had put upon the word married would have elicited some- 
thing confirmatory of his suspicions, he was this time balked ; for 
Louisa, aware of what he might have said, and seeing that the 
ladies were well within hearing, said out loud, ‘Yes, I was 
married in Paris; and I suppose you have been whispering to 
your friends that I am a bride. This is ungenerous, Mr. Caven- 
dish, (for that was the name of the mustachioed monkey,) thus 
to draw the eyes of the party on me when I had so well con- 
cealed it myself. But, as they say the eye of a king or a bride 
' is fortunate, I hope my glance will render you more lucky in 
your next whisper. 

i “ Even her own sex were deceived : she uttered the words 
^ coolly and collectedly, and in the last few syllables conveyed a 
'cut which even the brazen audacity of this puppy could not 
withstand. Whilst this was enacting on one side, the cavalcade 
on the other were convulsed with laughter: but Louisa felt that 
a blow had been given to her respectability, that sooner or later 
the bubble would burst, and she be unmasked ; and whilst lost 
in the dreary abode of her own heart, she gave way to the work- 
ings of a wounded spirit, and the wit of the one or the remark 
of another fell without effect upon her ear. From this she was 
roused by Mr. Cavendish again saying that he thought my son 
would be longer absent from his wife than she thought. 

“Alarmed by the mysterious manner of the communication, 
Louisa imagined ten thousand perfidies on the part of Harry. 
Her first idea was that he had betrayed her to this wretch who 
had won his money, and perhaps declared his intention of never 


34 


WALSINGHAM, 


returning to her. In this case all the horrors of her situation i 
presented themselves in quick succession, with an accumulated j 
account at the hotel, a daily increase of it, a reputation whisper- j 
ed away, without a friend in whom to confide, and without mo- j 
ney either to redeem herself or reclaim her lover. She felt ; 
abused to the lowest grade, and wa§ on the point of committing ^ 
herself to Mr. Cavendish, and by endeavouring to extract the 
secret from him, confirm his suspicion. In this, however, she 
fortunately stumbled at the first attempt ; and without any fur- 
ther remark calculated either to restore or excite her usual elas- 
ticity of humour, the first view of the waterfall, as they rounded 
a high and wooded hill, broke upon their sight, 'fhe horses 
were put to their speed, and in a manner more becoming the 
levity of fourteen than the staid restraint of married females, the 
whole party aspired to reach the wooden bridge, and stopped 
their horses close to the waterfall, fearing to attempt the passage 
of that apparently fragile and dangerous pass. 

“ No sooner had the party alighted, than a cloud of beggars, 
each carrying a dog in his arms, interrupted any remarks which 
might have escaped. Even Cavendisli, as he helped Louisa 
from her horse, and uttered something in a low hurried lone, 
stopped short as the clatter of tongues broke loose in supplica- 
tion for charity. No determination to be uncharitable stopped 
either their importunities or their solicitations : at last, finding 
that for the love of Heaven no money was bestowed, they 
changed their mode and urged charity on behalf of their dogs, 
which they agreed to throw over the foaming fall, in order to 
show Christians that death would not follow, although a leg or 
so might be broken in the descent. The ladies turned their 
heads away, disgusted at the cruel offer, and mendicity received 
a greater check from that society than from the one in Red Lion 
Square ; for women are ever averse to cruelty, at least by nature 
they are so: some indeed break down the barrier planted for 
the comfort of their hearts, and seem eager to show their dexte- 
rity in skinning cals or eels alive, or crimping the half-expiring 
fish. That this mode of obtaining money is common, those 
w^ho visit that twelve-feet fall of water dignified by the name of 
cascade, may any day satisfy themselves. Those dogs are pre- 
ferred which have already grown wise by the constant fracture 
of their legs : the numerous whirlpools twist the half-drowned^ 
brute in rapid circles, whilst the barbarians on the bridge en- 
courage the animal by shouts and cries to persevere to the land- 
ing-place. If the animal is thrown exactly in the centre of the 


THE GAMESTER. 


35 


fall, he may escape unhurt ; but if it is carelessly dropped the 
least on either side, the sharp-pointed rocks catch the poor 
devoted creature, the life of wliicli is sacrificed for ten sous, and 
thus with fractured limbs it either survives to reach once more 
its cruel owners, or is carried beyond their barbarous reach, and 
expires in the quick river below. 

“ In these parties of pleasure the principal gainers are the 
priest and his beggars ; his house, which stands a little distance 
from the bridge, is the only one in the parish which is blessed 
with a shed, under which the horses are placed to be turned half 
mad by the unrelenting flies. A kind of shudder at the propo- 
sition relative to the dogs had kept the ladies quiet, until they 
arrived at the house of the padre ; the first remark being made 
by one of the ladies, that tlie parish must be larger than met the 
eye, for the number on the door was 666. 

“ ‘The number of the beast,’ replied Mr. Cavendish, quickly, 

‘ and ,I take it for granted we shall find the prophecy fulfilled.’ 
Scarcely had he spoken these words, when a short, thin, un- 
shorn, unshaved little follower of divinity appeared : he ushered 
the party into his miserable abode, which contained no apparent 
comibrts, but which certainly afforded reason to surmise how 
his reverence got rid of himself and his thoughts. Dozens of 
empty bottles were standing in various parts of this room ; whilst, 
protected by lock and key, but visible to the eye, stood the spi~ 
ritual tempter, who, if the breath can confirm suspicion, the 
little padre had attempted to convert. The room was insuffer- 
ably close, and dining there was out of the question ; so the 
party, under the direction of Mr. Cavendish, agreed to dine in a 
shed belonging to a cow, the property of the padre ; and, after 
various attempts at one Herculean labour, the table was spread 
on a smooth lawn, which formed the bank of the river just below 
the fall. And here, surroundeil by the high mountains, which" 
I spread a long shade over the v.alley in front, and within hearing 
I of the waterfall, the party sat dovvn to the repast ; but, as they 
' occupied the grounds of the padre, and as his presence was 
actually necessary to keep his pauper parish from breaking 
through the thin defence of his domains, lie was invited, and 
became one of the number. 

“It was astonisiiing the power he held over his subjects, for 
when the savoury viands were spread, and when there appeared 
sufficient to have satisfied the clamorous mouths of the fifty or 
sixty who stretched their eager necks over the palings, tlie ex- 
cited feelings of the paupers alarmed the party in regard to the 


36 


WALSINGHAM, 


security of their goods ; but directly the padre held up his finger, 
and uttered two words, the whole mob crossed themselves, and 
sat down on a small rising ground watching their prey. It might 
have reminded one of the greedy Cossacks of Platof, who, dur- 
ing the retreat of the French army from Moscow, perched them- 
selves upon the heights which surrounded their victims, and 
dashed upon every straggler from those unfortunate but heroic 
battalions. 

“ That the party \vas a failure, was evident enough : and, in 
spite of the quickness of Mr. Cavendish, the folly of Mr. Hen- 
derson, or the peculiarity of the padre, a gloom had settled itself 
upon the ladies. In vain Louisa endeavoured to arouse tfiem 
and herself; her words were coldly received, and at every glance 
of Mr. Cavendish, who seemed by his manner of behaviour to 
know she was within his grasp, her efforts grew gradually 
weaker and weaker, and ultimately entirely failed. The busi- 
ness of eating being finished, the ladies retired to stroll 
by the side of this lovely river; and, instead of forming a kind 
of mass without regularity, each seemed anxious to secure liie 
arm of her friend, and Louisa was left to walk by herself. It 
was then the full force of lier situation occurred to her; she saw 
it all, it needed no conjuror to drop the scales from her eyes. 
She was unmasked ; or, what was as bad, suspected. She sat 
down by that babbling stream, as if to seek consolation in its 
noise, or wishing that the loud voice of conscience — for hers 
was not that small still voice, it was trumpet-tongued — might be 
drowned in the mass of water which roared over the cleft hill. 
She turned in her mind the conduct to be pursued ; the parly 
had wandered some little distance, and had intimated their hos- 
tility by sitting down beyond the reach of her voice. That 
Cavendish was in possession of the secret, she could not doubt:’ 
either lie had seen her when her character was sacred in some, 
of the gay balls of the French metropolis, and had heard of her'^ 
elopement with one who had never changed her name; or, in 
the riot of debauchery, when the sentinel of discretion is drunk, 
her, — she could not say husband, her, she trembled when she. 
uttered protector ^ — had betrayed the secret. There she sat a 
Niobe in tears, the loveliest of those by whom sftie was deserted ; 
a creature formed for admiration, for desire, for society; and 
now almost visibly a despised, an insulted wanton. 

“ To face the storm, she found herself unable ; to dissimulate, 
she was incapable; to force herself upon her company, she had 
too high a spirit. Fallen as she was, and in her own estima- 


THE GAMESTER. 


37 


tion irrevocably ruined, and utterly despised as she felt, still the 
spirit of her birth was not quelled ; and, in the emergency of 
the case, she decided upon resenting the injury she had sus- 
tained in the evident estrangement of her society. Long, long 
she pondered upon her dreadful situation: even hope that 
Henry would perform the last act of justice towards her, failed to 
support her flagging spirits ; but revenge for the insult her own 
sex had heaped upon her, by the whisperings of so insignificant 
a creature as Mr. Cavendish, armed her afresh for the combat, 
and infused a spirit which only revenge in an insulted woman 
could infuse. 

“In the mean time the gentlemen were very busy in render- 
ing the padre a subject for ridicule by his own parishioners ; the 
little man, who at first was shy and reserved, seemed to gain 
confidence when the ladies left the table; from abstinence he 
swerved towards the bottle, and began, one would have supposed, 
to lay in a stock for a fortnight. Soon it operated, and soon 
began to appear one of the most disgusting sights with which 
men can be afflicted. To see the man who on the Sabbath pours 
into the ears of his congregation the glad tidings of salvation, to 
see him who preaches the necessity of virtue, and who is elo- 
quent in exhorting his congregation to be sober and diligent, give 
the lie to his own words in the house of God, by basely pro- 
faning his character by drunkenness, is horrible; to drown the 
light of reason, to hush the eloquent voice, to obliterate memory 
even of himself and his Maker, are crimes doubly aggravated 
I when the hypocrite dares in the church to point out that way 

I which he is weak enough to refuse to follow himself. To wine 

r succeeded brandy: that dirty abomination, snuff, choked his 

I utterance; his eyes seemed on fire; and even decency was for- 

I gotten when this little spectre of divinity, this shadow of a 

churchman, gave way to his political opinions, and sung songs 
of revolution and of riot within the hearing of his parishioners. 
Then came all the devil of his composition, ‘ the love of money.’ 
One of the party, authorised by Louisa to pay his demand, 
which could hardly have amounted to three francs, was asto- 
nished to find the intoxicated padre a cheat as well as a drunk- 
ard ; he required thirty francs ; and so infuriated did he become 
at the hints that his charges were exorbitant, that he nearly 
added insult to injury, and threatened to detain the glasses, <&;c. 
until he was compensated. It was paid ; and no sooner had he 
counted the money, than, reeling from the shed, he called his 
hungry paupers, and pointing out the food still left, gave them 
VOL. I. 4 


38 


WALSINGHAM, 


permission to enter his grounds. Then came a visitation of real 
harpies ; in vain the commissionaires belonging to the hotel 
opposed this irruption of the enemy ; they broke through the 
slender defence, seized and bore off their plunder in spite of the 
words and the blows of the servants ; the padre staggered home, 
and, throwing himself upon his head, left the company to 
depart. 

“ It was now nearly eight o’clock ; the day had been intensely 
hot, and Louisa, overcome by the heat and her situation, felt 
the first cooling breeze which started from the adjacent hills. 
She lifted her eyes towards the point from which the wind 
came, and then first observed the party mounted and riding 
homewards. She started up, and gathering the folds of her 
habit, hastened to her horse ; all were gone but two, one her 
own, and one belonging to Cavendish : by this time the caval- 
cade had turned the corner, and were out of sight. All her feel- 
ings of revenge were hushed in the critical situation in which 
she found herself; to start alone was impossible. Cavendish 
was nowhere to be found, the servants were busy in defending 
their master’s property, and the ragged children left to pick up 
the offerings of drunken liberality, remained by the two horses; 
they were too weak to assist her, and the horses loo riotous to 
mount without aid. She looked round for her worst foe, he 
was not visible ; but her eye caught at a distant turn of the 
road her party at a full gallop, and she distinctly saw some of 
the ladies look behind, as if fearful of her approach. She now 
began to weigh in her mind if this could be a premeditated 
scheme ; but even this insulted creature could not credit that 
her sex would so desert her without some further proof than 
that adduced by this stranger to her. 

“To avoid the importunities of the beggars, she betook her- 
self to the priest’s parlour, which opened into his bed-chamber : 
there lay and snored in drunken forgetfulness that hypocritical 
preacher ; a man endowed with various talents, with an elo- 
quence hardly rivalled, with knowledge deep and profound ; a 
victim to that passion he could not control, a living lie upon 
his own advice, a man who pointed out the forbidden fruit, and 
who was the first to pluck it. She shut the door, and sat down ; 
how often, how very often she looked at the watch, the only 
remnant, besides a ring she was not privileged to wear, left by 
her seducer ! Even as she marked, the hours slipped rapidly 
away ; her thoughts wandered after him she loved ; and in the 
pleasure derived in retracing scenes of aflection, the time cheat- 


THE GAMESTER. 


39 


ed her in its flight, and the shades of evening, now casting the 
lengthened shadow over the village, recalled her to her situation. 
The horses still remained, held by an old man; the servant from 
Spa had gathered up the remnants of the feast rescued from the 
beggars ; the crowd had, being satiated with plunder, retired ; 
and Louisa heard only the distant lowing of the cattle, and^now 
and then the hasty pawing of the horses. 

“ The evening growing towards night, was still and calm : 
she remembered that it would require two hours by daylight, 
even at a good speed, to reach Spa ; that there was no moon ; 
and that even now, if she mounted, it would be midnight before 
she could reach her hotel. Then came the apprehension that 
her character, soon to be talked away by the female babblers, 
would not be exalted by a dark ride through a strange country, 
over hills, where houses did not exist, where the road was dif- 
licult to find by broad daylight, and where it was actually dan- 
gerous to cross, from the numerous pitfalls and inequalities. 
The wide romantic scene the noon-day’s sun had rendered mag- 
nificent, was now an object of terror. The shades of night 
were fast approaching ; the servant of the padre eyed her with 
suspicion ; and when she found that the officious menial would 
insist upon calling the padre, she took the desperate resolution 
of mounting by any 'means, and endeavouring by the sagacity 
of the horse to find her way home. She succeeded ; and had 
crossed the bridge before mentioned, and on the smooth road 
was urging her horse forward, when the clattering of Caven- 
dish’s horse convinced her that he had carefully concealed him- 
self in order to insure his prey. The road, which is good near 
the village of Coo, soon becomes rocky, ill-formed, and shaded 
by continual nut-trees. These thick-foliaged plants would even 
by moonlight have rendered the ride hazardous ; but now, with 
a darkness which Louisa thought more intense than natural, it 
became positively requisite to allow the animals to walk their 
own pace, and pick their own way. 

“ ‘ Your most obedient servant, Louisa Stanhope,’ began 
Cavendish, as he forced his horse close to her side. ‘ 1 thought 
we should have an hour’s quiet conversation, and I see you are 
equally disposed, or we should not be here this dark night.’ 

“ Louisa, at once convinced that all was known, remained 
silent. 

“ * Come, come, my truant bird, we must be better acquaint- 
ed ; as yet you only know me as it were by accident; but the 
time is come when you must regard me with a more friendly 


40 


WALSINGHAM, 


eye, for I have news to tell you with which you are unacquaint- 
ed. I know that marriage-ring, which you so cautiously ex- 
hibit, has no right upon that finger, and that — ’ 

“ ‘For Heaven’s sake ! Mr. Cavendish,’ interrupted Louisa, 

‘ stop ! I am not able to bear this insult ; and I wonder that you, 
who call yourself a man, should have selected this moment, 
when an unprotected female should be sacred in your eyes, to 
insult and revile her.’ 

“ ‘ I neither insult nor revile you,’ continued Cavendish ; ‘ if 
that precious bauble virtue, which you have thrown from your 
casket, was still in your keeping, I would not speak as I intend 
to do ; but you are the world’s property now, your own sex for- 
sake yon, and you may seek consolation amongst those who 
neither boast of virtue nor propriety, or throw yourself into the 
arms of any man who is kind enough to outstretch them for 
your protection.’ 

“Cavendisli, although a young man, was a most consum- 
mate villain in his heart : it appears that he had oftentimes seen 
Louisa, and had been equally anxious to inquire her history ; 
on the Continent this is more common than in a casual meeting 
in our own country. He himself was handsome, of a manly 
figure, a commanding countenance ; but with an eye that, when 
fixed by another, wavered and uncovered his heart, — the eye is 
the index of that. It is said, no animal can face the steady 
glance of the courageous, virtuous human eye; and Louisa 
knew that although she had an enemy by her side, she had a 
coward for her foe. Cavendish had, during his many gambling 
transactions with Henry, by little and little extracted her history ; 
and the night previous to his departure, when the last turn of 
fortune decided in favour of Cavendish, and when he, in the 
cowardly exultation over his fleeced friend, recommended him, 
as it was late, to go to bed with his pretty wife, and forget such 
a trifling loss, Henry, in a moment of spleen exclaimed, ‘ She 
is not my wife, thank God ! and I can be rid of her and the in- 
cumbrance to-morrow.’ Startled at this, Cavendish continued 
the question, when the half-inebriated gambler proclaimed her 
as ‘ Louisa Stanhope,’ the victim of his successful seduction. 

“The party at Coo coming immediately upon this discovery, 
the sudden departure of Harry, and the knowledge of his severe 
losses, determined Cavendish to effect his purpose. Cunning to 
a word, clever by nature, and calm and collected, he considered 
her honour now in his hands, and immediately determined to 
unmask her before the company, to estrange the females from 


THE GAMESTER. 


41 


Louisa ; and although he never imagined that fortune would 
throw her so soon in his power, yet he actually had planned, 
had laid the very trap into which the unsuspecting Louisa had 
fallen. He had persuaded the party to decamp, and had pro- 
mised one over-zealous lady to keep Louisa in the rear, so that 
her pious ears might not be profaned by hearing even the sound 
of her fallen sister’s voice. 

“ In every wo, with the exception of this one, to which in 
this miserable life we are subjected, the female breast participates 
in the misery of the sufferer; the heart which would bleed over 
the misfortune of unexpected losses, the death of friends or rela- 
tions, or could compassionate the minor evils of our existence, 
stands unmoved to the cry of pity from an abandoned female. 
Instead of providing for their wants, and winning them back to 
the path from which they have swerved, they spurn them to 
degradation, and force them to continue, by the. exclusion they 
practise, in that road of ruin, until their healths are impaired, 
their spirits broken, their hearts hardened, and their guilt con- 
firmed. In vain they lift the supplicating voice ; they are dis- 
carded as worthless, and reviled as strumpets. 

“ The gamester and the drunkard, are they not as bad as the 
profligate woman ? Does not the former not only bring misery 
on himself, but on all those dependent upon him ? Does not he 
fly from one excitement, if possible, to a worse ? Is not his 
means of subsistence the plunder of others ? Is he not vicious, 
low, degraded, oftentimes a forger, and mostly a swindler? 

“ Who can rely upon the drunkard ? Is he fit to undertake any 
service ? Will he not squander his own and the wealth of others 
to drive himself into forgetfirlftess ? Is the house in which he 
sleeps secure from fire? or in the seaman,. is the ship safe from 
explosion ? How many lives may he not sacrifice by his in- 
temperance ; and yet we neither; hold the gambler as an exile 
from society, nor the drunkard from the warmth of our fires. 
We compassionate their errors, we pity their infirmities ; but 
we admit them in our company, and oftentimes enrol them as 
our friends. Let those beware of such acquaintances who follow 
the steps of a Cavendish, or the ruin of a Harry.” 

4 ^ 


42 


WALSINGHAM, 


CHAPTER V. 

“ It <Vas Cavendish’s idea that by suddenly convincing Louisa 
of her secret, beating her down to the lowest despair, and then 
slowly proposing in kind terms a remedy, that he might suc- 
ceed in turning her affections from Harry and gain them for 
himself ; not that he had the slightest idea of protecting her 
afterwards, he was not generous enough in his disposition to 
shelter the woman he had ruined; snfficient was it for him to 
have her in his power, to rob the girl of the little peace of mind 
which remained, and then to allow her to find a refuge where 
and how she could. 

“ Some small distance beyond the village of Coo the road 
again becomes comparatively good, and in this part Louisa ad- 
vanced at a safe canter ; she was anxious to near her home, but 
she forgot that each pace of the horse conveyed her further from 
any habitation ; for, after winding through this straggle of huts 
and houses, the road leads over the before-mentioned hills, on 
the summit of one of which a solitary house still stands. Caven- 
dish was close at her side : in vain she actually tried a gallop ; 
his horse was the fleetest, besides which he was a bolder rider, 
and a man has a great advantage from his seat, especially when 
the road is bad, and the horse requires support. To evade him, 
to distance him, was impossible; and, had she succeeded, she 
never could have found the road, difficult by daylight, and al- 
most hazardous in darkness. During the accelerated pace, 
Louisa had wound herself up to face the storm ; and when they 
emerged from the lane, and began to ascend the hill, the horses 
seemed to know the necessity of a slower pace, and dwindled 
into a walk. Cavendish had wound his coward bosom to a re- 
solution which in daylight he would have hesitated to have at- 
tempted. The flash of the woman’s eyes were imperceptible: 
it was like a timid man writing a letter in his own sanctum, in 
which he dared to give vent to his feelings in the absence of his 
enemy; for many men will hector in security, and, when the 
eye is withdrawn, the heart may be re-assured. 

“ ‘ Are you convinced, Louisa,’ said Cavendish, ‘ that I know 
more than you suspected ; and that, in spite of your calm asser- 


THE GAMESTER. 


43 


tion this morning, know you to be, not the wife, but the mis- 
tress of Harry.’ 

“ ‘ You have asserted as much, Mr. Cavendish, and if true or 
not I shall not condescend to answer ; but I cannot but regret 
that, independent of the insult offered to me, you should have 
whispered away my character, and thus left me under the pro- 
tection of a man who has ruined my reputation, and who has 
driven away by his slanderous longue those of my own sex who 
were my proper companio-ns.’ 

“ ‘ It is never a hlot until it's hit, as the backgammon players 
say : you were believed virtuous, — they liked you ; you are 
found under false colours, — they desert, perhaps despise you.’ 

“ ‘ And pray, sir,’ replied Louisa, ‘ by whose authority do you 
circulate these rumours.’ 

“ ‘ Harry’s.’ 

“ ‘ Good God above ! it cannot be ; you are endeavouring in 
the absence of this man to insult his wife : never would 1 be- 
lieve the basest of men could descend so low ; it is false, utterly 
false ; he never asserted what you assert, he never whispered 
what you have whispered.’ 

“ ‘ You women are remarkably foolish, my dear Louisa : let a 
little reason penetrate through the darkness even of this night; 
you must know that I was ignorant of this two days ago, or you 
would have seen more of me, rely upon it. It was when he 
resolved todeave you that he betrayed the secret; he has no 
more money, he is off, he has shaken the clog from his leg, 
your landlord will become clamorous for his bill yet unpaid : 
to-morrow will see you a different creature to the once courted, 
once innocent lady; his* flight I have already circulated ; his 
return I know improbable, if not impossible, and therefore, my 
pretty bird, caught in your own lure, I would recommend your 
turning your eyes upon one who has money enough to support 
you, and who, in compassion for your distress will shelter you.’ 

“ The indignation of Louisa knew no bounds : attached, 
fondly attached to the man who had ruined her — perfectly in- 
credulous as to the assertions of Cavendish, and yet knowing 
their truth, she knew not how to answer, for her wrath was 
kindled, her reason half estranged, and from the latter part of 
his speech she saw clearly his intentions and the increasing 
danger of her situation : still she was woman enough to tempo- 
rise ; and swallowing that anger which at first nearly choked 
her utterance, she rather calmly replied, ‘ When I am convinced 
of the truth of your assertions, Mr. Cavendish, I may be more 


44 


WALSINGHAM, 


inclined to listen to your propositions ; but I feel easy under 
that promise, knowing who and what I am. Next Saturday, 
Harry shall revenge the insult offered to his wife ; and if I 
were his mistress, he would be under a double obligation to 
protect me from the ruffian assault of a stranger.’ 

“‘I feel rather easy upon that point, Louisa: 1 tell you, for 
the last time, that he himself told me — yes, me — that you were 
not his wife, and that he would soon be clear of the incum- 
brance. Why, he likened you to a load, a burthen, a heavy 
disagreeable weight he had fixed upon his own shoulders, and 
from under which he was resolved to slip. I really wonder that 
you, so young, so beautiful, so full of life and animation, want 
the spirit of your sex to despise a man who has so cruelly de- 
serted you.’ 

“ ‘ And one who has so cruelly traduced me I’ 

“‘Nay, nay, my dear girl, be reasonable. I love you, and 
therefore feel a warm interest in your welfare ; I love you, 
Louisa, — (saying which, he took her hand, which was resting 
on the pommel, and which she hastily withdrew,) — before we 
part this night, that hand will not be so savagely withdrawn : 
let me show you your situation, and you can best judge if I 
heighten the colouring of the picture. Harry is ruined, he has 
not a farthing : in the excitement of his loss, he has confessed 
himself happy — yes, child, happy — that he was not clogged by 
matrimony ; and even in madness he had some reason, for he 
said a man was never thoroughly ruined until he was married : 
he rejoiced in publishing your shame; not only myself, but six 
other men were present: he held you up to public obloquy, 
public scorn ; he confessed his bill unpaid at the hotel, and his 
inability to pay it; he spoke of your jewels as too good, too 
real, to adorn a mistress ; and in the bitterness of his loss he 
derived comfort, not from your affection or your charms, but 
because he could cast you aside, like the loathsome weed car- 
ried by the Gulf stream, to float upon the public ocean until 
that ocean destroyed it. Where now are the feelings which 
warm the female heart? Have you no spirit, no courage, no 
scorn for such a worthless fellow ; who, having plucked the 
ripe fruit, leaves it to rot on the ground ? Nay, I will make 
you convinced that I speak the truth : no sooner had he men- 
tioned yoxxv proper name, than one of the party remembered you 
at Paris, recollected you as Louisa Stanhope ; nay, he had seen 
the whole account of your elopement in the papers.’ 

“ A long deep sigh escaped Louisa. At this moment, when 


THE GAMESTER. 


46 


in all its naked truth, the story was told, her feelings were be- 
yond description; she saw at once the probability of his deser- 
tion, but the jewels too pure to grace a wanton’s neck, stung 
her to the very heart ; in vain she endeavoured to mask his be- 
haviour; the whole was too connected, not one link in the chain 
was wanting. Then did she feel the devil rising in her bosom, 
and overawing the guilt that rankled therein ; she could not 
discredit that which she knew to be true, and which could only 
have been known by the mean babbling of her lover’s tongue. 

“‘Rather exult than sigh,’ continued Cavendish, ‘for that 
dark cloud which threatens us with its thunder is not more 
charged with danger than is your situation : to-morrow you will 
be an outcast; this late ride with one scarcely known to you, 
the grief to which you will give vent, the shame which you 
must feel, and cannot conceal, will all tend to confirm the truth, 
and to place me in public estimation as your protector. If this 
cloud burst over us, and swell the fords near the road, we may 
be detained until daylight ; and what then will be the surmise 
when, with jaded horses, bespattered habit, weeping eyes, you 
creep into your room and find your officious maid ready to note 
every spot or stain ? Reflect well upon this, and remember it 
is but the overture to the serious opera, which the whole scan- 
dal will develope. Again, Louisa, I love you ; I oflTer you my 
house, my home, my fortune : and had I not been so overpow- 
ered by your beauty as to confess myself your admirer, I had 
not planned this meeting, and which fortune has so kindly af- 
forded me.’ 

“ ‘ And to this meeting then I am indebted for my ruin. If, 
Mr/Cavendish, that cloud to which you have alluded were to 
arm me with all the terrors of its lightning, on your head should 
fall the bolt : hear this from one who through life has only told 
one falsehood ; I hate you, despise you, and would rather fall a 
prey to the midnight ruffian, than yield to one to whom I am 
indebted for all the misfortunes I feel about to crush me.’ 

“ ‘ Not so, Louisa.’ 

“ ‘ Sir, I beg that freedom may be discontinued. I place my- 
self under your protection, but our acquaintance ceases the mo- 
ment of our arrival ; your well-told story of dirt and marks, my 
innocence — the plain unvarnished tale — will shield me from ; 
and now, even now, you are willing to add another falsehood to 
your declaration of love. Did you not swindle Harry of his 
money ? Did you not receive that which has ruined us ? Have 
you not circulated those reports which life is too short to ob-^ 


46 


WALSINGHAM, 


literate ? Have you not driven Harry from my arras, and my 
sex from my society V 

“‘You are rash, Louisa, dearest Louisa, in your expressions ; 
you are now in my power, and I might avail myself of the hint 
so kindly given in the midnight ruffian. I have acted as a 
friend, 1 have shown you your danger, and I have offered you 
an^escape : — keep your horse nearer mine, or you will be in a 
gravel-pit. Remember this, — that he who is branded as a 
swindler, as a liar, as a villain, may as well add a cause for 
another opprobrious term.’ 

“ ‘ You cannot mean to use violence, Mr. Cavendish ; the 
very Heavens will protect the innocent. I cannot believe you 
even capable of such wickedness — such cowardice.’ 

“ ‘Louisa, I have resolved that you shall love me : nay, re- 
gard me as your best friend : and not the thunder of the heavens 
shall turn me from my resolution. Consent then to relinquish 
the man who scorns you, and give me the hand which you 
have so lavishly bestowed upon a worthless villian.’ 

“‘Unhand me, Mr. Cavendish, or my screams shall startle 
the neighbourhood : unhand me, sir, directly, and learn that 
respect which is due to a woman.’ 

“ ‘ By Heavens ! I cannot part with you ; scream if you will ; 
even this solemn calm before the storm will not convey your 
screams to human ear. Here is a wild and rugged hill to which 
none repair but during daylight ; no shepherd brings his flock 
to this ungenerous soil : and here, stop your horse ; — here I 
will exact from you a promise to be mine, to forget the man 
who has so scandalously ill-used you, and to live with him who 
has ruined in order to secure you.’ 

“ The shriek with which the poor girl screamed for assistance 
was re-echoed, in the stillness of the night, from hill to hill, as 
if to summon all to her aid : that loud piercing shrill voice was 
unheard. Cavendish, frightened from his purpose, relinquished 
her hand, and Louisa dashed her horse forward. 

“Those who have resided at Spa are well aware how fre- 
quently, how almost instantaneously, the storms arise. Attracted 
by the many mountains in the vicinity, the clouds collect upon 
their summits, and require but the first flash of lightning to inun- 
date the plains below. But on this night slowly had the clouds 
collected; by degrees they began to extend themselves; and 
the night, dark before, was perfectly black in the direction from 
which the impending storm was to come : it hung like a pall 
over the benighted travellers ; and often did Louisa implore its 


THE GAMESTER. 


47 


downfall, in order to scare the villain from his destined prey. 
Aloft, the wind was plainly audible ; it seemed to follow the 
scream, as if any thing which disturbed the stillness would 
bring on the tempest. The horse, fearful of its footing, again 
relaxed into a walk, and moved its ears backwards and forwards 
as if catching the sound of the wind, which became louder and 
louder, although not a breath disturbed the lower atmosphere. 

Cavendish was again by her side, again eager to be heard ; 
and now with soft and kind words endeavouring to persuade his 
victim to renounce her still loved Harry : but Louisa never 
deigned a reply ; as he sank in solicitations, she rose in cou- 
rage ; she suspected him as a coward, and she hated, she despised 
him. 

“‘I see,’ he resumed, ‘it is all in vain. I had hoped that 
your knowledge of the dreadful predicament in which you stand, 
and my kind intentions, might have procured for me a more 
ready ear and a more generous auditor. Surely yon cannot be 
blind to your situation ; your forlorn, your helpless condition, 
prompts me again and again to offer my protection.’ 

“ ‘ Never, sir, never ; as there is a God in heaven — never will 
I consent to such baseness 1’ 

“ ‘Then by that heaven your ruin is inevitable! To whom, 
dearest Louisa, can you turn? Where can the despised and 
degraded find a friend in affliction? Is it not evident that your 
own sex have abandoned you? And where, when the deter- 
mined landlord presses his bill, — where can you find the means 
to satisfy his just demand ? Look, therefore, to me as your pro- 
tector; and your generosity shall be repaid by my undeviaiing 
affection.’ Here Cavendish dismounted, and placing his hand 
through the bridle of Louisa’s horse stopped it, and with the 
look of a lover again urged his suit in more respectful terms. 

“ ‘ ’Tis useless,’ Cavendish continued, ‘ ’tis useless your re- 
fusal, Louisa: look well, first to your own state, then to mine; 
nay, do not be wilfully blind. You see in the abandonment of 
Harry only more affluence would accrue to you: he is ruined, 
he has not a farthing; nay, dearest girl, has he not insulted you 
beyond endurance, in stigmatising you as a wanton, on whose 
neck the emblem of innocence, the pearl of p'lrity was conta- 
minated ? Has he not branded you with infamy? — and has he 
not, at the very moment when his assistance was most needed, 
deserted — left you at a public hotel, having previously published 
your dishonour ? Come, come, 1 know it is hard to give up 
those we love, and I feel that truth now : but it amounts to mad- 


48 


WALSINGHAM, 


ness in a woman to cling to the being who cast her from him, 
and who is so pitifully mean that he is not contented with hav- 
ing rifled the flower, but he must’ throw the stalk away.’ 

“Louisa sighed heavily; and Cavendish, aware that women 
do not sigh without a cause, took her hand as he walked by the 
side of her horse, allowing his own to follow at the bridle’s 
length, and thus artfully continued, — ‘Excuse me, dearest girl, 
if in showing yon your danger 1 have used words which ill ac- 
cord with your wishes, or perhaps your belief ; but it is a duty 
I owe to beauty, — and surely never was that duty more fairly 
commanded, if loveliness can command, — to shield it from in- 
sult. You think I have used you ill in severing your compa- 
nions from you : I have done you a service if you will avail 
yourself of it ; for now, as you know your danger, you can 
escape from it before even the female tongue can babble your 
disgrace. Poor dear helpless beauty, it is hard so young to be 
so sacrificed ; and I should ill become the name of a man if I 
did not participate in your afflictions, and use my utmost en- 
deavours to shelter and shield you.’ 

“ At this moment, a vivid flash of lightning seemed to dart 
within an inch of the horses ; the thunder followed in a loud 
terrific roar. Louisa’s horse shied to the left, its hoof striking 
full upon the foot of Cavendish ; and, turning sharp round fell 
into a pit, forcing Cavendish before it, and dismounting its rider : 
the other horse turned its head from the storm, whilst the clouds 
discharged their contents in such torrents that a second Deluge 
seemed at hand. Neither were much hurt, but the pain experi- 
enced from the hoof of the animal checked the mellifluous ac- 
cent of Cavendish. 

“ Louisa availed herself of this sudden and unexpected deli- 
very to deceive her unworthy companion. ‘ See, Mr. Caven- 
dish, the Heavens on which I called have interposed to save 
me; and this, I hope, will lead you to think more of our mutual 
safety than of your present wishes? How are we ever to find 
our way in this dreadful night without we take advantage of the 
lightning, by which means we may discover the solitary house 
which stands not far from the summit of the hill ? Let us mount 
our horses before the animals become more frightened, and per- 
haps, unable to stand the storm, may gallop away. I hope you 
are not hurt, sir V 

“ Cavendish, recovering from his fall, was walking round and 
round, limping seriously, and muttering curses both loud and 
deep : to the question of Louisa he answered with a mild voice. 


THE GAMESTER, 


49 


‘ Think not of me, dearest Louisa ; if you are unhurt, I care not 
for this trivial pain : I grieve to say, that although I can walk, I 
can offer but little assistance in placing you on your saddle; but 
let me try and, saying this, he placed his hand covered with 
mud round the waist of Louisa. She released herself instantly, 
saying, 

“ ‘ Then I must do the best to save myself and, taking the 
bridle, she led the horse to the beaten track, and finding a small 
hillock, she succeeded in leaping on her saddle, whilst Caven- 
dish officiously endeavoured to be of some trivial service. He 
look her hand, and respectfully kissed it as he continued, ‘ I 
trust, Louisa, ray respectful manner will convince you that you 
have not fallen into the hands of a ruffian. I hope you will see 
in me one whose admiration of you is founded in love ; and 
who would willingly repair, if the love viras mutual, the injury 
you have sustained at the hands of Harry. Before I mount my 
horse, and whilst the thunder may witness the promise, let me 
implore you to give me some hope that my affections are not 
misplaced, and that you will leave Spa to-morrow under the 
protection of the man who will traverse the world to seek the 
spot on which his dear I^ouisa may wish to reside ; and he—’ 
he continued, as he kissed her hand, — ‘ he will not desert the 
woman who returns his love, or blazen her shame in the eyes 
of the curious world.’ 

“ ‘ Mr. Cavenxlish,’ replied Louisa, ‘ you must admit my 
right to doubt all your assertions ; but if what you have said of 
Harry’s baseness is true, if he does not return to me before next 
Wednesday, I will become yours, if you discontinue your im- 
portunities now; and let this promise suffice for the preseht : 
although he has used me badly, — nay, I could find another word, 
— yet I would not desert him until he has cast me away. Now 
mount your horse, and let us liberate ourselves from our present 
difficulties.’ 

“ Cavendish again kissed her hand, and thanking her for the 
prospect she afforded him of convincing her of his sincerity, he 
mounted his horse. His determination had been very different ; 
but now he held the balance between the quiet possession on 
Wednesday, or the hazard of the consequences should he perse- 
vere. He was confident Harry would never return : and there- 
fore, after binding Louisa by a promise the most sacred- — nay, 
making her seal the contract by kissing him, they proceeded onr 
wards, Cavendish holding the hand of Louisa, which she never 
attempted to withdraw: ‘ I know not, my dearest Louisa, what 

VOL. I. 5 


50 


WALSINGHAM, 


is best to be done : this rain will render the fords impassable ; 
and the roads, hazardous at all times, will now become danger- 
ous. Shall we make for the lone house, and there wait until 
daylight?’ 

“ ‘No, no,’ replied Louisa, who was resolved not to trust her- 
self longer with Cavendish than^-was actually necessary; ‘we 
are drenched to the skin and covered with mud ; the sooner we 
gain the hotel the better ; and 1 would not for the world arrive 
by daylight. It is now only midnight, and we have passed the 
worst road ; there stands the house ; we must take the road to 
the left, and follow the lanes : we cannot now miss our way.’ 

“ ‘ You remember your promise, Louisa — start not at my again 
mentioning it — we are both bound by the same bond, I not to 
molest you now, and you to be mine on Wednesday. I told you, 
before the night was over this hand would not be withdrawn, 
and I am no false prophet.’ 

“ ‘What I have said 1 have said,’ replied Louisa. 

Now then,’ resumed Cavendish, ‘ let us endeavour to undo 
the mischief I have already done ; to-morrow, or rather to-day, 
will bring forward your clamorous creditors; allow me to be your 
banker and pay alb your bills — I will call about noon. We must 
now be upon terms of the strictest friendship ; you must appear 
left under my protection, and I will endeavour to persuade your 
female friends, that I was mistaken. Do not dine in public, but 
I will be your companion in your room.’ 

“ ‘ As you direct, so I shall do, Mr. Cavendish ; but perhaps 
the landlord may not be clamorous, in which case I see no ne- 
cessity of borrowing from your kindness.’ 

“ ‘ The greatest in the world, darling: your offer to pay your 
account will give the lie to my own whispers ; your having 
money will insure you respect: and next Wednesday we will 
remove to Liege.’ 

“ ‘ If Harry does not return,’ interrupted Louisa. 

“ ‘I fear your sincerity even now, Louisa. How can you 
cling to such a shadow ? How can you still love the man who 
has ruined your reputation, left you a pauper, and who now is 
either half way to Paris or London V 

“ ‘ He left his wife, his own wife for me — nay, occasioned 
her death after being married only seven months,’ sighed Louisa, 
‘ and therefore would not hesitate in deserting me when a fresh 
object attracted his attention. Ah, Mr. Cavendish, it is the 
knowledge of this very fact I have mentioned, that he left his 
wife for me, — ^ay, and that it killed her, — that has bound me to 
him.’ 


THE GAMESTER. 


51 


“‘Hah! hah! hah!’ laughed Cavendish; ^ what fools you 
women are! Wliy you confess it then, you acknowledge your- 
self his mistress!’ 

“ ‘ And have you not told me so yourself V replied the asto- 
nished girl; ‘ have you not mentioned the circumstances so mi- 
nutely that I could not be deceived ?’ 

“ ‘ Good ! by the Lord, good! He said so in a fit of spleen, 
but nobody believed him ; and the story about the papers was 
my own invention.’ 

“Louisa withdrew her hand, and Cavendish instantly stopped, 
the horse : the storm had passed, the calm had succeeded, and 
the moon had risen : he looked her in the face with the con- 
sciousness of power, and, seizing her again, said, ‘ Either your 
hand, or your honour!' She gave it trembling as it was; and 
Cavendish mistook for fear that which arose from scorn, or 
the sensation of touching a viper. Now the villain became a 
bold man, now he held her firmly in his power ; the truth, which 
he certainly never believed before, was now confirmed, and his 
manner changed from the vacillating lover to the imperative 
master. Her story was easily to be confirmed; he had her 
firmly in the web, and his revenge was certain. He hated 
Harry for the word ‘ coward’ which had been directed at him 
by his victim; he had taken his money, he had cheated him of 
that, and now he would rob him of his mistress.” 


52 


WALSINGHAM, 




CHAPTER VI. 


“ It was not before three o’clock on Thursday; morning that f 
Cavendish and his victim arrived at Spa. The busy hum of 
men was hushed in repose, and they alighted at the Hotel de 
Flandre without being noticed ; the man to whom the horses 
belonged was aroused by the tread of the animals, and, opening 
the great gates of the courtyard, admitted the tired and jaded 
creatures. Cavendish assisted Louisa to dismount, and would 
have saluted her on parting, had she not withdrawn herself; 
and without offering her hand, she coldly repeated, ‘good night,’ 
and retired to her own room. The maid startled at seeing her 
mistress in such a disordered state : her eyes seemed swollen 
from tears, her hair hung in long locks from which the moisture 
was still dropping — her riding-hat was indented in front, her 
habit was covered with mud, and, in the only place which might 
have defied the dirt, was the strong print of a hand. The other • 
party, some of whom lived in the same hotel, had returned by 
ten o’clock ; and it certainly did appear very strange to the * 
strong intellect of the waiting and inquisitive servant, that all I 
the ladies should have so suddenly deserted her mistress, and - 
left her to the protection of a stranger on a dark night over a 
barren country. The many questions put to her mistress were 
answered in one answer, and unfortunately she blended a false- 
hood with the truth. 

“ ‘She had,’ she replied, ‘ left the waterfall with the rest of 
the parly; but in riding over the hill the horse had shied and i, 
she been thrown, and that a Mr. Cavendish, as she was rather 
hurt, had advised the rest to ride forward to avoid the impending 
storm, whilst he would remain and walk by her side until she 
reached home: the rain had so swollen the river that they could 
not pass, and thus she had been detained until this late hour.’ 

“‘Why ma’am,’ replied the inquisitive maid, ‘you must 
have been thrown after the storm began, for the habit is covered 
with mud ; and dear me, why here is the mark of a hand round 
your waist — I suppose you rode home.’ 

“ Louisa saw the error she had committed, and her maid was i 

■w 


THE GAMESTER. 


53 


loo quick not to perceive the change in her mistress’s manner; 
as when those garments were removed, which we who relate 
the anecdote hardly know by name, no contusion was visible, 
no marks in black array confirmed the statement, no sore in- 
flamed the skin, no blood oozed from any wound. She had 
walked up stairs firmly and weil ; and if she had been so injured 
as to be five hours behind her company in a distance of only 
nine miles in all, some mark would have been left to attest the 
truth, some expression of pain would have escaped, some lini- 
ment would have been offered, and some friction desired : but, 
instead of this, deep, deep sighs escaped her; her eyes streamed 
with tears, her whole manner was hurried and confused. ‘ I am 
afraid, ma’am,’ continued the maid, ‘ you are very much hurt ; 
can I get any thing for you to relieve the pain : is it your back, 
ma’am, or your arms.’ 

“ ‘ Never mind, Mary, I shall be better to-morrow ; do leave 
me. I will put my hair in paper. You must be very tired; 
good night, and don’t let any body disturb me in the morning. 
There go, that’s a good creature, for I feel very tired, and can- 
not talk.’ The servant retired. 

“ It was said by a great and good man, that every night, when 
he retired to rest, he passed before him every word he had utter- 
ed, every action he had committed, every sentence he had read ; 
— thus he habituated liimself to stand in judgment on his con- 
duct ; and whilst he censured the slightest levity, and prayed 
for forgiveness, he congratulated himself, and thus received his 
reward, for the good he had done, the learning he had acquired, 
the virtue he had practised, and the forgiveness he had extended. 
That this is a wholesome, useful watchfulness over ourselves is 
eviden| ; and if repentance is the first step towards forgiveness, 
self-examination is the shield from crime. 

“ Sleep, that blessing ‘ which covereth a man all over like a 
blanket,’ came not to cover the approaches of horror : con- 
science, the busy sentinel over virtue, searched in vain for its 
charge, and reproached its inattention by reminding the once 
proprietor of its loss. How changed was all around her ! — no 
longer the fascinating Louisa would be the pride or the envy of 
her acquaintance, no longer would the world court her society : 
her own breast was her accuser, and her sighs, her tears, her 
own absent, distracted manner, would become the principal evi- 
dence against her. In vain she endeavoured to reassure herself; 
when people have once lost their own esteem, all the words 
and all the works of the world can never restore it. She turned, 

5 '^ 


54 


WALSINGHAM, 


and turned in her mind the proper course to be pursued ; and 
finally resolved upon declaring herself too indisposed to quit 
her chamber, to exclude every one but her own maid, and to 
give the most positive orders that Mr. Cavendish should not be 
admitted. If Harry intended to return, twenty-four hours would 
not elapse without a letter : if not, she resolved to state her 
situation to her landlord ; leave all her clothes, &c. in his care ; 
borrow sufficient money to convey her to Paris ; and, like the 
houseless stranger, beg admission at that door from which she 
had eloped, and which was now closed against her. With these 
determinations she became more quiet : she saw it was useless 
to cower at a danger from which she could not escape ; and 
equally impolitic would ii have been to have put on the face of 
assurance, when her female friends had united against her, and 
pretty plainly demonstrated the course they intended to pursue. 

“ Daylight dawned, the usual hour of rising came, — and noon 
appeared; her maid had obeyed her orders, and had devoted her 
morning to the laudable exercise of her inquisitorial talents. She 
had elicited from the commissionaires the certainty that her 
mistress did not leave the waterfall with the rest of the company, 
and she was not slow in observing that although she had met 
one or two of the ladies themselves, 5^et that no inquiries were 
made concerning her mistress, or of the injury she might have 
sustained by her fall. She knew that this was unusual in 
civilised society, and she very soon came to the conclusion that 
her mistress was no better than she ought to be. Mary was a 
rather hard-featured woman, of about four-and-twenty, and join- 
ed to a face none the better for the attack of small-pox, a violent 
irascibility of temper, one of the seven failings which the 
Genius of Hindoostan has fixed as the natural composition of 
women. She, having put that and that together, nodded her 
head suspiciously, and resolved to remain in her room until she 
was called. 

“ In the Hotel de Flandre there are two staircases : one close 
to the entrance into the courtyard, and which no one can ascend 
without observation from the secretary, or some of the servants ; 
the other exactly facing the front door, up or down which a 
dozen strangers might play at leap-frog without a chance of 
discovery. They both lead to a passage, on one side of which 
are the sitting, and on the other the bed-rooms ; and, as many 
occupy both this floor and the next, any intruder might roam 
about without being liable to suspicion, or without being regard- 
ed as an interloper. 


THE GAMESTER. 


55 


“ It was noon, when a slight tap at the door awoke Louisa 
from her unquiet slumbers ; and as it was evidently broad day, 
for the curtains are too thin to exclude the light, and the shutters 
rarely closed but in winter, she concluded it must be her servant, 
and without further hesitation she pronounced ‘ Come in,’ quite 
audibly enough to convince the forward Mr. Cavendish that he 
had made no mistake in the room, for he had squinted into the 
different chambers, the open doors of which invited his peeping 
propensities ; and being thoroughly satisfied that Louisa had 
not ventured forth, he resolved to visit her in her bed-chamber,' 
or wherever else he could find her. 

“Louisa, who little suspected that surprise, was extended in 
that careless attitude to which most resort when suddenly 
awoke, and when the heat is almost insupportable. Her hands 
were placed over her eyes, as if to exclude the light, which was 
painful from its sudden admission ; and charms unrivalled were 
not wholly concealed, either by the dress or the covering. 
Cavendish saw and gazed, and he must have been more than 
man who could have turned from the fairest picture Nature ever 
painted. She withdrew her hand ; and there, leaning over the 
bed, his eyes fixed upon her and glaring with passion, stood her 
betrayer, her worst enemy, Cavendish. 

“ Those charms were instantly concealed, — a modest blush 
suffused her cheeks, and the affrighted girl saw at once the ob- 
ject and the determination of the villain. She soon found words 
to give force to her disgust, and desired the intruder instantly to 
withdraw. Cavendish heeded not the command, but gave vent 
to the violence of his excited appetite in words indecent and in- 
decorous. He had shut the door, and now he locked it ; and then, 
with quivering lip, he thus addressed his victim. Holding his 
finger to his lips as if to impose silence, he spoke in a whisper, 
low yet audible, whdst a tremor agitated his body. ‘ Hear me,’ 
said he, taking her hand, — ‘ hear me, or court your own ruin. 
The door is locked — we are alone ; and if through false deli- 
cacy you alarm your neighbours, what will be the consequence 
I need not tell. Louisa to be found in her bed, and I by her 
side ! consider before you act hastily. The servant who will 
come wdll find his entrance obstructed; the knowledge of this 
being your chamber will look like connivance; your late ride 

with the stranger, your supposed husband’s absence. Hush I 

hush ! there are footsteps along the passage ; let go that bell- 
rope, and listen to one who is come to claim you as his own.’ 

“ ‘Away, away ! you false villain !’ replied the spirited girl; 


56 


WALSINGHAM, 


‘ thus and thus I show you how little I heed your caution or 
your falsehoods !’ and saying which, she rang the bell with vio- 
lence. ‘Now stay,’ she continued, ‘ while I denounce you as 
a thief to the police ; and be convinced by this act how little 
you have to expect from Louisa Stanhope, — who, however 
much she may be fallen, is still high enough to despise the 
creeping, cringing coward who thus insults her.’ 

“ Footsteps were heard along the passage, — the door attempted, 
and found locked. Louisa, calling her maid by name, desired 
her to break it open ; and then turning to Cavendish, who stood 
trembling like the delected ruffian he was, she said in a firm 
voice, ‘ Unlock that door, sir.’ He did as he was desired, and 
the maid entered. 

“ ‘ How came that man,’ said Louisa with a dignity little to 
be expected under such circumstances, — ‘ how came that man 
admitted into my bed-chamber when I was asleep ? Look round 
the room, Mary, and see that I have lost nothing, before you 
allow him to escape; and" desire the landlord to come here 
directly.’ 

“ Astonishment at the very suspicion of the theft, and know- 
ing the disgraceful attack he had made on the supposed wife of 
his pretended friend, Cavendish was not long in resolving upon 
a retreat ; and as he stepped into the passage, he met two of the 
ladies wlio had so civilly deserted Louisa the day before. The 
darkened room, the knowledge that Louisa was still in bed — or, 
at least, had not appeared, — and the cautious, hasty manner 
Cavendish avoided all communication, — certainly did not take 
from the conviction already entertained, that their former ac- 
quaintance had connived at this meeting, and had actually re- 
mained in her bed-chamber in order to meet her new acquaintance. 

“ In the mean time Mary’s mind was not inactive. She had 
seen Cavendish the day before one of the party to the waterfall ; 
she had gleaned sufficiently of his description to know that he 
was the person who accompanied her mistress home ; she had 
seen the state of her habit, and had now caught him, a perfect 
stranger, in the hotel, in the bed-room, with the door fastened, 
and her mistress not yet risen. Strange misgivings rushed over 
her mind — women know how quick their sex are at backing out 
of a difficulty — and Mary considered the hasty order of the 
master of the house, the idea of the theft, as so many subterfuges 
to avoid detection, — nay, the very confusion, the perfect ex- 
haustion which overcame her when she saw her chamber 


THE GAMESTER, 


57 


vacated by Cavendish, was a confirmation in the mind of the 
servant that something was rotten in the state. 

“ It was some time before Louisa recovered herself sufficiently 
to go through that long operation of the toilet, and she saw that 
her maid was far from being the ready, obliging servant she had 
ever been ; — her orders were sullenly, silently obeyed ; the little 
chatter of household scandal and womanly surmises were hushed ; 
and Louisa felt most poignantly the suspicion of her servant, and 
soon resolved to remove it. 

“ ‘ It is very odd,’ she began, ‘ how that man could have the 
impudence to intrude himself into mytbed-oh amber, and have the 
I audacity to lock the door,’ 

\ “ ‘ Is that Mr. Cavendish, ma’am, the gentleman who rode ' 

i home with yon last night?’ asked the servant. 

“ ‘ Yes,’ replied Louisa with some hesitation; ‘ but I never 
saw him before yesterday.’ 

“ ‘ Lord ! then,’ said Mary, who had watched the change in 
her mistress’s countenance in the looking-glass, before which 
she was skiing, and apparently arranging her front hair, whilst 
the inquisitive servant was twisting the back, — ‘ Lord ! then, I 
wonder how he came to be of the party !’ 

“ ‘ He intruded himself,’ replied Louisa : ‘ he is an old friend 
of Harry’s, and therefore did not wait for an invitation.’ 

“ ‘ Well, ma’am, it does astonish me,’ continued the maid, 

‘ how he should have known this was your room. You couldn’t 
have told him last night when he had his hand round your 
j waist?’ 

“ ‘ What do you mean, Mary ! — what insolence is this V 
' Oh ! none, ma’am. I’m sure ; only seeing is believing, like, 

I as the vulgar people say ; and I have left the mark of the hand 
[ upon your habit, you see, ma’am.’ 

“ ‘ Ha, very likely, Mary, for he lifted me on my saddle after 
I was thrown.’ 

\ “ ‘ But, that, ma’am, was before the storm came on.’ 

“ ‘It would better become you, Mary, to pay attention to your 
own business than to make those kind of remarks. If I account 
for it, that is sufficient.’ 

“ ‘ Ah ! poor dear Master Harry 1’ continued Mary, if he 
knew it, — and the very day after he left you too, — it would 
break his heart, that’s what it would. Oh, how I do pity him ! 
that’s what I do.’ 

“ ‘ Im sure,’ replied Louisa, ‘ you are very kind and tender- 


58 


WALSINGHAM, 


hearted ; but it occurs to me that I am more^ to be pitied than 
he is. I wonder what is to break his heart V 

“Oh, ma’am, he’ll hear it all : the commissionaires say you 
remained behind with Mr. Cavendish, tlie servants know it was 
three o’clock when you came home, and I’ll take my Bible oath 
I saw him in this room before you were out of bed. You need 
not look so, ma’am,— thank God I speak the truth ! Not one of 
the ladies have inquired after you ; and if you had been thrown, 
of course they would have done so. Well, well, although I am 
a poor servant, I know what’s right ; and I should be much 
obliged to you, ma’am, totfeke this as a warning.’ ^ 

“ ‘ As a warning of what, you impudent jade'? tell me directly,’ 
said Louisa. 

“ ‘ I should like to better myself, ma’am, — I can’t stay with 
you now; and when Mr. Harry comes home, he’ll know it 
all, and I am sure he’ll leave you directly.’ 

“ ‘ I am sure you will leave me directly,’ replied Louisa, with 
all the calmness of virtue, (that is, as far as she was innocent in 
the point in question,) ‘ for such insolence I will never suffer. 
Better would it have been, and more creditable, for one woman 
to have a&sisted another, rather than to have, forsaken her 
mistress, even had she been in error.’ 

“ ‘ Oh ! Lord, no, ma’am ; I never should get a character if I 
remained with you now. All the servants below have been 
a-talking about last night’s business, and some of them say you 
never were the wife of poor dear Mr. Harry, and two of the 
ladies saw the gentleman come out of the room just now.’ 

“ ‘ Leave me directly ; go out of the room this instant, Mary.’ 

“ ‘ Oh yes, ma’am ; but I knows what 1 knows — thank God 
I have got a clear conscience. I hope you wer’n’t much hurt 
by your fall last night, ma’am ? If you don’t require the month’s 
warning, I hope you’ll pay me my wages to-day, and it’s not 
Mary Lancing who will trouble you, miss, much longer, I ’ll be 
bound for it, — that’s what I will.’ And thus, very unlike the 
sounds of harmonious music gradually diminishing in the dis- 
tance, did this insolent Jezebel make herself heard as she retired. 

“ ‘ Come back, Mary,’ said Louisa. The maid obeyed. 
‘ Fasten my dress behind ; and tell them to take breakfast into 
the saloon. Mind what I telkyou : if I find that you add one 
word to your fellow-servants below, you will have some cause 
to repent of it. I shall not discharge you until Mr. Harry re- 
turns, in order that I may hear you recount to him the anecdote 


THE GAMESTER. 


59 


of Mr. Cavendish’s insolence. The heart which knows its in- 
nocence defies the slander and the malice of the world. You will 
sit in this room, and take care that no one is admitted into the 
saloon ; and you will desire the master of the house to have 
another bed placed here.’ 

“The cool manner in which Louisa pronounced these words 
had their due effect upon Mary, and she became a little less 
disposed to be loquacious. 

“Louisa knew the hasty temper, the suspicious, jealous tem- 
per of Harry ; and in an instant she saw the danger of discharg- 
ing the maid before his return. Safe in lier own innocence, she 
had resolved on the first instant of his arrival to tell the whole 
unvarnished tale, and to call the maid as an evidence of the in- 
trusion of Cavendish ; and scarcely had this forlorn child of 
misfortune matured her plan, when the idea of a duel as the 
necessary consequence scared her from her intention. How- 
ever, this she parried' by the reflection, that if Harry had al- 
ready branded Cavendish as a cow^ard, little would the latter 
heed the challenge. In all probability he would decamp upon 
the first news of the arrival ; for the man who seeks by words 
and deeds to ruin the weak and to insult the forsaken, is not the 
hero who would brave the battle to offer satisfaction, or to court 
danger to gratify desire. Cavendish was a systematic liar; bold 
before those he knew to be weaker than himself, — a coward in 
his heart, a villain in his ideas. 

“ That day Louisa was neither inquired after by her former 
associates, nor again molested by her persecutor. One benefit 
counterbalanced the other evil. Her worst enemy was her own 
thoughts, her worst ally her own maid ; for, in spite of advice 
or caution, the tongue of a lady’s maid is very little under con- 
trol of the proper authority, and wag it will, either for or against 
somebody. 

“In this uncomfortable dilemma Louisa remained until Tues- 
day; and four times had Mr. Cavendish attempted an entrance 
into the saloon, but each time he found the door locked. He 
then turned his attack upon the maid, and endeavoured by bribes 
to gain her over to his interest. In this he at first failed also ; 
for Mary was not so sure the reports were gospel, — more espe- 
cially as her mistress retained a calmness of spirit which, if all 
were true, she must have been more than woman to have com- 
manded. However, she promised to assist Cavendish, and, after 
some scruples, took the bribe. On this Tuesday a letter arrived 
from Harry, mentioning his probable arrival that evening. The 


60 


WALSINGHAM, 


letter was couched in affectionate terms, and hinting^ his having 
drawn largely, and secured sufficient for their future wants ; 
and, in conclusion, intimated his firm resolution once more to try 
his fortune in order to recover his losses. Her eye brightened as 
she read the letter ; there was a marked affection throughout, 
and she felt that if she* could but wean him from the vortex of 
dissipation by which he was whirled in the giddy round of 
gambling, and which would inevitably suck him down at last, 
his heart was still hers, that better prospects might yet dawn — 
that her character might be restored, if not entirely saved. 
Scarcely had she finished this letter when a waiter delivered her 
another; — it was from Cavendish. She hesitated in opening it. 
At first she thought it would be better to place the letter into 
Harry’s hand, with a solemn assertion that she had opened it 
not knowing from whence it came ; but that she was as ignorant of 
its contents as the unborn babe. Then came female curiosity — 
certainly rather a strong advocate for a hasty perusal, and then 
appeared before her the magnanimous part of braving all danger 
she felt herself secure in the arrival of Henry ; and therefore, 
yielding to the temptation and the triumph, she resolved to gra- 
tify the laudible curiosity, and she read as follows, wondering 
as she read, that he who could stoop to the low artifices he had 
practised in endeavouring to corrupt her maid, could pen such a 
letter, with so much feeling and so much apparent openness. 


THE GAMESTER. 


61 


CHAPTER VIL 


** * Dearest Louisa, 

“ ‘ The day is nearly arrived when, if you regard a sacred 
promise you will be mine. I feel, however, that some apology 
is due to you for the manner by which I obtained that promise, 
and my conduct since I returned from Coo. If any blame is to 
be attributed to me, remember that when a man loves, his reason 
forsakes him, he sees but one object, he strives to gain but one 
point — the very faculties and abilities with which God may 
have blessed him fall into disuse, and the passion for the object 
to be obtained alone occupies his heart, his mind, his soul, and 
his memory. My excuse for my unmanly behaviour is that pas- 
sion ; for my intrusion into your bed-chamber, my love is the 
culprit ; my whisperings against your reputation, my very con- 
spiracy against your character, were dictated by a feeling too 
fond to fear a difficulty, and loo sincere to be turned aside with- 
out a desperate struggle. In this confession of my love receive 
my apologies ; it is a virtue more inherent in your sex than in 
ours 10 forgive. I implore you now to consider me not as the 
conspirator against your honour, but as the guardian and pro- 
tector of your innocence. Harry is in England : a reconci- 
liation has taken place with his father upon the distinct promise 
that he should abandon you ; and believe me that even should 
he return, his object would be to shake off the incumbrance — to 
rid himself of the clog which he considers and which he has 
mentioned you to be as far as regards himself. His love was a 
boyish passion, — it is satiated, and he is cloyed ; you were his 
victim, and you are to be sacrificed : but my affection shall con- 
sole you for the loss of him who never merited your attachment, 
and rny sincerity shall be proved in the many years I trust we 
are still destined to live together. To-morrow I claim you as 
mine ; every thing shall be ready to convey you hence, — your 
bill shall be discharged, and you my own, Oh, can I forget that 
night of storms and thunder, when, encircled in my arms I 
hugged you closer and closer to my bosom, giving and receiving 
those warm and envied kisses which monarchs might be proud 

VOL. I. 6 


62 


WALSINGHAM, 


lo enjoy, and which inspired me with new life, new prospects, 
and new enjoyments ! It must be your care immediately to cir- 
culate a report that he is sick at Brussels, and that I have kindly 
offered my services to convey you to him. Once freed from 
Spa, my residence in any part of this world depends upon your- 
self ; your choice will be my guide, your wish my law. I 
cannot conclude this letter, for whilst I write it I seem in your 
presence and conversing' with you ; I watch with rapture the 
bright flash of those dazzling eyes, and seem to catch the mur- , 
inurs of response which flow from your envied lips. / \^U 
never whisper to strangers a reproach against your fame, / 
never will attempt to break the chain which love has entwined 
around me: and the more adversity may press upon ycv, the 
closer I will wrap you in my arms — the more sincere and last- 
ing'^hall be my attachment. Farewell until to-morrow ! a few 
lingering hours, and Cavendish and all his fortune wiW be at 
your fe^t. Adieu, adieu, best and fairest of God’s creatures 1’ 

“ She placed the letter in her bosom, and heaving a deep sigh, 
threw herself upon her sofa. ‘ What security,’ said she, ‘ has a 
woman — a confiding, sincere woman — against a villain like 
Cavendish? Who could believe tlu^letter to be as false as the 
villain’s heart? But happen what'inj^, never will I disgrace 
myself by being the mistress of an unprincipled gambler.’ 

“ Harry returned. Louisa rushed into his arms and wept for 
joy. Some remnant of early virtue still clung to my son, — even 
he could not restrain his tears; he looked at her with, one of 
those fond impassioned looks, he gave way to the feelings of hTsV 
heart, and that moment w’as a bright spark of happiness before 
it vvas entirely extinguished. To Louisa’s questions he replied . 
with an apparent candour. He had been, he said, as far as , 
Antwerp ; and there he managed to procure a large sum of mo- 
ney, which he had placed in a bank at Brussels : he was now 
in affluence, and again the smiles of the world would enliven ' 
his retreat. Yet was there something so false, so hollow in his 
manner that Louisa suspected what she did not dare to express. 

‘I thought,’ said she, ‘ you had been in England ?’ 

“ The colour forsook his chee.ks ; he answered with a hasty 
voice, ‘ No ; I did not dare lo cross the water, for fear my - 
father should learn my return — and I,’ he added in a playful : 
manner, ‘be made a prisoner.’ 

“ False, unhappy, ungenerous boy ! he hqd been in England : 
he had discovered that I vvas in the country ; he' learnt from my 


THE GAMESTER. 


63 


bankers the injunctions I had given relative to the non-payment 
of his checks ; he had allowed sufficient time to elapse for his 
visit to and return from Longdale House; he forged my name, 
and he received five thousand pounds which I had lodged a week 
before at my bankers’, and with which I had intended I9 pur- 
chas-e some addition to my estate. See — see, sir, the miseries 
— the crimes to which gambling leads ! My son had nearly — 
very nearly committed a murder; he had broken the vow— the 
recorded oath taken at the altar of his God ; he had forsaken 
his wife, he had deceived his friend, he had ruined the virtuous, 
he had plunged a family into disgrace and misery, he- had vio- 
lated the law of God, and now had sacrificed his life to the 
laws of his country ; and yet was he young in the iniquity 
which he afterwards so zealously pursued 1 As if, indeed, the 
path of crime was strewed with flowers instead of thorns, — 
like the tiger which has once’‘lasted human flesh, like the blood- 
hound that has once, ^sucked human blood, like the dog which 
has once pursued its prey, oi* the hungry shark which follows 
the pilot-fish lo the bait — so followed my son the disreputable 
course he had trQdden~:%§o lingered he on the road to ruin and 
destruction, that they? bgiih overtook him before he had the 
courage to ‘turn from' ht^,\^ckedness and live.’ 

“ ‘ Harry, my love,’ qs>^nued Louisa, ‘you must arm your- 
self to hear something which report has busily circulated, and 
which will stab your generous heart to the core.’ 

“ ‘It cannot be !’ said the aflrighted youth; ‘so quick — the 
rumour could not have reached Spa already ! Then go, Louisa, 
— go, pack up every thing directly ; I will discharge the ac- 
count ; we must not linger one moment, — ill tidings never tarry, 
and justice though tardy is sure.’ — It was the idea of the forg- 
ing being discovered that'^shook him. 

“ ‘How kind, my Harry, thus to save my character! — this 
is again my own Harry! Oh, how I have longed for you ! 
That cruel, cruel Cavendish circulated the report, and everyone 
at Spa credits it.’ - 

“ ‘ The devil blister his malicious tongue ; but quick — if I 
am suspected — ’ 

“ ‘ Fou, dearest Harry ?’ 

“ ‘ Why, did you not say so? — did you not say the report 
had reached Spa ?’ 

“ ‘ What report, Harry? You are strangely agitated.* 

“ ‘ Ay !’ 

“ ‘ Four days ago Cavendish unmasked us ; he— 


64 


WALSINGHAM, 


“ ‘ I live again ; it cannot be ! Now tell me — I am calmer, 
more collected ; — the worry of the journey, the pleasure at 
again seeing you, my father’s letter, all deranged me — I was 
dreaming, I believe. — But, darling, Cavendish you were speak- 
ing of, that imp of the devil — what of him ? What has he 
said that the town should credit, or that I should fear V 
, “ ‘ You must be cooler, more collected, Harry, before I be- 
gin ; I will not distress you the first hour of your arrival : no, 
this moment is for love returned, — and as I cling round your 
neck, and kiss you thus, and thus, I feel all my cares removed, 
all my wrongs redressed. But, Harry, we had better leave Spa 
directly ; and perhaps it were belter now to settle the account 
than to risk it until to-morrow.’ 

“ ‘That I was prepared to do, and you speak wisely in re- 
commending the paynient of the account ; for we gamblers are 
rich and honest one moment, poor and ungenerous the next.’ 

“ ‘ 4’ell your maid to get ready, and I will ring for the bill 
this instant.’ 

“ ‘Mary,’ said Louisa, as the maid entered the room, ‘you 
must pack up our things to-night, for we leave Spa to-morrow 
morning early. Now don’t idle the time, but be quick.’ 

“ ‘ Am I, ma’am, to pack up master’s things also : do you go 
together V 

“ ‘ To be sure we do,’ replied Harry. ‘What would you 
have a man travel in one carriage, and his wife and his luggage 
in another V 

“ ‘ Certainly not,’ continued Mary ; ‘ but I have told Miss, — 
I beg your pardon — Mrs., — that I should provide myself with 
another place, and I hope she will not require the month.’ 

“ ‘ Indeed ! and pray, Mary, what may be the reason of your 
sudden departure?’ asked Harry. 

“ ‘ To save my character, sir,’ replied the impudent creature. 
‘ If we serves people like Miss Louisa, we cannot get another 
place : but a lady here, who knows that I was ignorant who 
she was, has offered to take me ; and so, sir, if you please to 
pay me my wages I shan’t trouble you to take me away with 
you.’ 

“ ‘ What’s this V said Harry, looking at Louisa. 

“ ‘ Leave the room, Mary, and do as I told you.’ When 
alone with Harry, she explained the story concerning the Coo 
party ; but she neglected to state the whole truth, in order, if 
possible, to save a personal rencontre : she had suppressed the 
late ride, and the insult offered to herself. Harry stamped and 


THE GAMESTER, 


65 


raved, not for the actual discovery so much as that it might lead 
people to watch their movements. To shake off Louisa was 
his only idea ; for himself, he was provided with a false pass- 
port ; he could easily pursue his journey to Italy, under the in- 
serted name of Rockingham ; whilst those who pursued him, 
if such pursuit occurred, would follow his proper name, to 
whatever place the forlorn Louisa might bend her steps. This 
had been his plan, and this he had tnatured in his journey from 
Antwerp. Here was an opening; time was scarce, the forgery 
would be discovered, and he knew that the hounds of justice 
would scent his track. His face betrayed the black malignity 
of his heart; he walked to and fro — he answered not the in- 

i quiries of Louisa, who, watching every working of his coun- 
tenance, continued weeping in anxious suspense. 

“ ‘ Cavendish never savv you before,’ he at last began ; ‘ you 
) must have given him some encouragement, Louisa, or he would 
^ not have dared to have divulged wliat I so unguardedly uttered, 
i From his lips will I learn the truth this instant, and before I re- 
turn I will have fathomed the lowest depth of this intrigue. 
Take care of this money until I come back: if it is as I sus- 
• pect, we part for ever to-morrow morning.’ 

“ The clouds of misfortune which had collected slowly over 
f the devoted head of Louisa were now about to burst. She 
threw herself on the sofa and gave vent to the bitterness of her 
1 feelings. For him she had sacrificed 

‘ State, station, heaven, mankind, her own esteem ;* 

- and now to be suspected, now to be cast like a loathsome weed 
' to rot in negligence — mayhap to wander a convicted prostitute 
over the face of the earth to be spurned from the door she had 
1 refused to enter— to be a houseless vagrant, a byword and a 
scorn ! 

“ The interview with Cavendish was short. He advanced 
what Harry was too ready to credit: from him was elicited the 
I late ride, and with it the assertion that Louisa had proposed it ; 

J that from her light behaviour her company had deserted her ; 
that he had been admitted into her bed-chamber; and that, in 
fact, it was useless to quarrel about a girl who was unworthy 
of credit. Cavendish put the question in the darkest point of 
view — the impossibility of the sudden desertion of the females 
if something had not occurred, and that since that day not one 
had called upon her. He used every endeavour to persuade 

6 * 


66 


WALSINGHAM, 


Harry to desert her, and advised him to examine the maid as a 
confirmation of his statement. 

“ Mary was loquacious when her opinion was required. 
The disordered state of the dress, the confusion of the story 
relative to the fall, the print of the hand round the waist, and 
her solemn oath that on entering the room she found Mr. Ca- 
vendish by the bed-side, the room having been locked, and she 
desired not to disturb her mistress until she was summoned ; — 
to a naturally jealous man this would have excited painful sus- 
picions ; but to a man resolved to part from a woman, and who 
considered his own safety as compromised as long as his name 
remained the same, and so long as his movements must be 
traced should he be encumbered with a family, it was quite suf- 
ficent. He now made preparations for his departure without 
saying a word to Louisa. The false passport had been viseed 
at Brussels for Geneva ; and his own, in which Louisa appear- 
ed as his wife, was viseed at Spa for Paris. He had two car- 
riages — the lightest he took for himself; and he ordered the 
horses to be ready at half-past nine, at which hour it was dark. 
Now came the parting scene. He cautiously avoided entering 
the house until a quarter after nine. He had seen every pre- 
paration made, and actually saw the horses harnessed ; and 
when assured that his retreat would be instantaneous, he wound 
up his cowardly determination, and forcing over his counte- 
nance the gloominess of disgust, he entered the apartment. 
There was Louisa sobbing upon the sofa, her face buried in her 
hands. She saw him not, she heard him not ; but she started 
like a delected criminal when she heard his deep-toned voice 
pronounce her name. She rushed towards him — she extended 
her arms, she would have fallen into his, but — with a slow 
and measured pace he withdrew. He waved to her to be seat- 
ed ; he repulsed her advance, and he checked even the current 
of affection. ‘ Louisa,’ he said, ‘ we must part for ever. I 
could have borne much — nay, more than most men ; but when 
I think of the sacrifice I made for you — when I see before me 
the attenuated form of my wife rising now to mock me for my 
base abandonment of her, and rebuking me for my violated oath, 
for one who has now deserted me, or has caused me by her 
shameless behaviour to become an outcast in my own home, 
and who, in her selection of a betrayer, has taken the only man 
on earth haled and despised — a man who was and is a gamester 
and a villain 1 I can neither forgive nor forget the insult. 
Louisa, we must part. Your guilt — ’ 


THE GAMESTER. 


67 


* “* Oh, no, no, no ! Hear me, Harry ! By heavens, I am 
as innocent as unspotted snow, saving in the sacrifice I have 
made to you !’ 

“ ‘ What! can guilt and impudence be carried so far? — But 
it is useless. Did you not remain behind until dark at Coo to 
ride alone over those desert hills with Cavendish ?’ 

“‘No, never: it is true I did wait, and it is true he rode 
home with me.’ 

“ ‘ Then why conceal this from me when you accused him to 
me this morning? The fall you omitted, sweet innocence ! and 
there on your habit remains the firm print of the hand of 
that scoundrel Cavendish, and in a position which was never 
required to place you again on the horse.’ 

“‘Oh, Harry, Harry, you will break my heart! Can you 
believe — you whom I have loved as few ever loved — that I 
would disgrace myself with a mere stranger?’ 

“ ‘ Did you consider it no disgrace when you escorted him to 
your chamber, and when you locked the door?’ 

“ ‘ What infamous liar has thus poisoned my Harry’s words? 
It is false — as false as I am true 1 He did force himself, when 
I was asleep, into my room, and locked the door ; but ask if 
my bell did not summon assistance.’ 

“‘Such timid creatures as my innocent Louisa,’ retorted 
Harry, with a sneer, ‘ might have locked their own doors in a 
public hotel.” 

“ ‘ You cannot believe it ! My worst suspicions are confirm- 
ed — you have been in England, and in the shame which rises 
on your countenance I see the confirn^tion of the report,— -you 
have agreed to abandon me, to screen yourself, and you have 
basely consented to sacrifice the innocent to save the guilty. — 
But, Harry, you are ill. Oh pardon me the words your sneer 
forced from me ! take me again to your arms, confide in me, 
and life itself should be wasted in serving you. Oh, Harry, 
Harry, remember me as I was when I first yielded to your 
love ! — think of the ruin I have spread over my aged parents, 
and how the daughter on whom all kindness was lavished has 
brought her mother’s gray hairs with sorrow to the grave ! Re- 
member that it was under the mostsolemn promise of my marriage, 
should death free you from the being you deserted — that was 
the last persuasion which shook my resolution ; and now, oh 
shame, shame ! to listen to a man you have branded as coward 
— to heed the whisper of an impertinent maid, when I stand 
here to vindicate my own suspected character !’ 


68 


WALSINGHAM, 



“ Harry was staggered at the boldness of the appeal, and as ^ 
the guilty are always timid, he did not bear the look of inno- 
cence without faltering. Now he felt it more requisite than 
ever to break from her ; he uttered in a low voice, ‘ It is use- 
less, Louisa, — the proofs are too strong, even the most incredu- 
lous would waver. True, too true is the saying, “ the once 
fallen woman must for ever fall.” I might have known that she 
who sacrificed herself tome at the expense of her own virtue would 
be only true until another fancy occupied her mind : I see, I am 
convinced against my will of your guilt; the ride, the fall, the 
room, Cavendish’s own words, your maid’s report, your own 
suspicious manner — ’ 

“ ‘ Hear me, Harry, this once. By all I ever held sacred — 
by my mother whose heart 1 have broken, by my father who 
has disowned me, by my God who has deserted me, I am not 
guilty — I never harboured one thought against you ; and now I 
will never leave you — nay, start not, you shall tear me from 
your heart, and shall spurn me from this embrace, but leave you 
I will not — cannot.’ *As she vehemently expressed these senti- 
ments, she wound her arms around his neck. 

“‘Away then, false woman 1’ continued Harry; and as in 
the struggle he endeavoured to untwine her arms, Cavendish’s 
letter fell from its hiding-place. 

“ ‘ What’s this ?’ said Harry : ‘a letter, by heavens ! and by 
a strange hand. Let us see who is the favoured swain of my 
innocent Louisa. — Ah ! from Cavendish ! Lovers’ letters begin 
any where ;~what’s this I read ! — “ Can I forget that night of 
storms and thunder, when, encircled in my arms, I hugged you 
closer and closer to my oosom, giving and receiving those warm 
and envied kisses” Hence, horrible, false, perjured, im- 

pudent woman ! thus I destroy the evidence against you.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, Harry, tear it not, — save it, save it i The first part 
will prove my innocence. Justice, justice, — Harry, even the 
murderer is not denied that !’ 

“ ‘ Away, — your very breath is pollution since you breathed 
upon that villain ! — Kisses given and received, — the very letter 
warmed near her treacherous heart, and not one word said 
about the correspondence ! — Go, go !’ 

“ ‘ Oh, where — where can I go ? Hear me Harry, I implore 
you I’ 

“ ‘ Go any where, rather than in my footsteps. Unhand me, 
Isay! Wliat, still clinging. Then thus, thus I rid myself of 
my burthen — of the falsest, the most treacherous of females !’ 


THE GAMESTER. 


69 


“With these words he flung her from him. The poor girl 
fainted upon the floor ; when Harry, throwing some notes upon 
the table, rushed down stairs, got into his carriage; and before 
the forlorn, neglected Lou*:sa recovered from the stupor, Harry 
had left her for ever and forever, and was far on his road from Spa. 

“ It is here alone that I attempt to vindicate my son ; for, 
leaving the forgery question aside, and considering merely the 
evidence as brought before him, the most confident would have 
wavered. Had he read the lettter, he would have been con- 
vinced of her innocence — had she shown it at once, it would 
have disarmed suspicion : but who is there cool and collected 
at all times ? who can tamely hear himself suspected of a crime, 
and still retain the outward show of innocence ? Harry was a 
villain in his heart, and I forgive him the forgery ratlier than 
the abandonment of Louisa. But it is ever so : the gamester 
cannot love — the excitement of play paralyses every otlier pas- 
sion ; and the woman who has a husband a gamester can never 
know the real joy of domestic happiness. Gamesters are gene- 
rous, because hope is ever liberal : their generosity arises from 
the unknown value of riches ; he who is accustomed to throw 
down hundreds upon one chance is not likely to inspect a bill, 
or quarrel about its amount. I feel myself overpowered by 
my exertion now, and therefore shall become a borrower on 
your hospitality for another day. But we must leave Louisa to 
her destiny until the fate of my Harry shall be disclosed. 
Good night, Robert ! I hope the lesson already given may not 
be useless; and when you pass before your mind the memory 
of Louisa, prepare yourself for the natural consequence of one 
false step in a woman’s life.” 


70 


WALSINGHABr, 


CHAPTER VIIL 


The day over, the dinner finished, they again drew near the 
fire, and the old gentleman continued the story. It is requisite 
to observe, however, that he kept Robert in profound ignorance 
as to his name ; and he seemed to watch him narrowly during 
the day, more to see how he occupied his lime than with the 
desire of disagreeably spying into his pursuits. He himself 
seemed busy about some papers which he read and altered ; but 
he kept always the opposite extremity of the table from Douglass, 
and appeared very careful to conceal his occupations. As he 
was evidently an uncommon acquaintance, Robert took care not 
to offend him, and cautiously abstained from glancing his eye 
towards him. This seemed to satisfy him, and age and youth 
lived together harmoniously. 

“ We left my son,” the old gentleman resumed, “ flying from 
Louisa, and endeavouring to fly from himself. That, however, 
is no easy matter; and the man who bears about him an eternal 
hell in his own conscience, never knows the comfort of one mo- 
ment’s ease; — he is haunted by the remembrance of his crimes, 
he becomes a coward, he fears the glance of the stranger, and 
in every bush imagines an officer. Harry had now assumed the 
name of Rockingham — as such he ^as designated on his pass- 
port, and he determined to vary his route in such a manner as 
to dodge any pursuer. He had left his servant behind at Spa, 
and pilssing through Aix-la-Chapelle, he directed his course 
towards Cologne, alone. At Cologne he hired a domestic, some- 
thing between a courier and a rascal, and having shipped himself 
and his carriage he proceeded by the Rhine some few leagues, 
when he landed again, and taking post-horses made all despatch 
towards France, through which he travelled until he arrived at 
Cleremont, a village between Amiens and Paris, and not fre- 
quented, although in the high road, by many travellers. 

“His first care was to get the English papers from the time 
of the forgery ; but although every police report was scanned 
with guilty exactness, yet not one word could he discover tend- 
ing to alarm him. The fact is, that the very day after he had 


THE GAMESTER, 


71 


forged the check, I arrived in town to complete my purchase, 
and on examining my account I saw at once that something 
wrong had occurred. Being well aware of the desperate beha- 
viour of my son, my suspicion fell on him ; and on asking who 
received the money, I was told my son, and yesterday. 1 knew 
what would be the consequence of my avowing the forgery, and 
made no further remark than that some more stock must be sold 
out, and gave the directions for its being done ; consequently 
nothing was ever known of the transaction, and you are the only 
living creature who is a partner in the secret. 

“After sufficient time had elapsed, in order to lull him into 
security, my son despatched his servant to Paris to make dili- 
gent inquiries concerning the family of the Stanhopes ; and 
having heard that they had long since left Paris and were resi- 
ding in Rome, he decided on the desperate resolution of return- 
ing to the French metropolis. He took up his quarters in the 
Hotel Mirabeau, in the Rue de la Paix, and seemed resolved to 
husband his remaining resources. 

“ At this time my wife died. She had endeavoured to trace 
her son ineffiectiially ; land I, enraged as I was against him for 
his shameless behaviour to me, wished her not to succeed. I 
had hoped that, deprived of money, and now awake to his mis- 
guided mode of life, he would have returned like a second prodi- 
gal son, and sued for forgiveness : I therefore kept back my 
wife’s letters, little dreaming that her end was so near. 

“ She died of the sudden rupture of a blood-vessel. She had 
been my companion for twenty-five years ; and although we 
may have occasionally differed in opinion, yet we never once 
quarrelled, or allowed the sun to go down upon our displeasure. 
Her words were few after the accident, but those were all for 
her lost Harry. She exacted a solemn promise of my forgive- 
ness, and she urged me to inculcate virtue in the breast of her 
son. In the very agonies of death her voice feebly gurgled, ‘ My 
son, my son !’ and as, in the last floating vision of the imagina- 
tion, she stretched forth her arms to press him to her heart, she 
died and left me alone in the world. This event detained me 
in England, for my grief was not feigned : na one can tell, who 
has not experienced it, the loss of a wife, — she who for a quar- 
ter of a century has been your hourly companion, who has 
watched your wants and relieved them — who has assuaged the 
fever of sickness, and comforted the wounded in spirit. Day 
has succeeded day, and night, night ; yet never has the morning 
dawned without a prayer for her, or my evening’s address to the 


72 


WALSINGHAM, 


Almighty been offered without recurrence to her name ; and if 
the supplications of an infirm pilgrim before he lays down his 
staff and scrip be acceptable in the sight of Heaven, she shall 
know the affection of her husband, she shall rejoice over his 
prayer for her eternal salvation.” 

It was some time before the aged companion recovered him- 
self sufficiently to proceed, and Robert began to be apprehensive 
that the exertion had overpowered him. He rallied, however, 
in a quarter of an hour, and Robert entreated him not to con- 
tinue the recital which caused him so much pain, and which so 
agitated his mind. 

“ It is my duty,” he replied, — “ you must know all ; the 
time may come when your knowledge of these truths may be 
beneficial to you. I am better now, and, thank God, have passed 
one of the most wretched periods in the anecdote of rny unfor- 
tunate existence ; and now for the end. In the end of Harry, 
how often have I used the words of the great poet, 

‘ In all thy visitations, gracious Heaven ! 

Save me, oh save me from the dreefdful curse, 

A disobedient child I’ 

and sometimes have I been so wicked as almost to arraign the 
justice of Providence in having cursed me with an ungrateful 
boy. The usual announcement in the papers met the eye of 
Harry ; and it is one redeeming virtue, amidst the multitude of 
his sins, that he dropped a tear for the memory of his departed 
parent. It appeared by some letters, or rather copies, found in 
his drawer, that he meditated suing for forgiveness ; for one half 
sheet, on which was written the effort at reconciliation, con- 
fessed all the errors of his life, and gave an earnest of future 
amendment. Had this been sent, he had been saved, and I 
might have died in contentment. 

“The grief for his mother’s loss soon passed, and he once 
again ventured into the vortex of dissipation. Gaming is never 
eradicated ; it may be apparently smothered, but the fire still 
burns — the smoke still testifies its existence, and it requires but 
the slightest air to fan it into a flame. Harry became wretched 
in his solitude ; for idleness can never exist without a victim, — 
there must be some one to be pestered, some one to be bored 
with the eternal endeavour of the idle to rid themselves of them- 
selves. 

“ Again had Harry recourse to gaming. Fearful of being 


THE GAMESTER. 


73 


recognised at the Salon, apprehensive that the silence in the 
papers was a plan in order to discover his retreat, he never ven- 
tured out until dark ; and then, instead of visiting the more gen- 
tlemanly resorts of Frascati’s and the Salon, he crept away to 
the Palais Royal, and there, in number 154, soon managed to 
reduce his income and to lose his capital. It was now that all 
the bad passions of his heart started from their lurking-place. 
He who had forged, had murdered, had lied, had deceived, was 
not a man over-scrupulous of the means by which his purse was 
to be filled. The habits of his youth, the splendour to which 
he had been accustomed, still retained some command : he could 
not descend to the low manner of living so common to those 
chevaliers (Tindustrie who infest the French metropolis, having 
rooms filled with borrowed furniture to deceive their victim as 
to their resources, but who feed in seclusion, or who vegetate in 
obscurity. Money was now the idol of his heart. The less he 
had, the more he coveted ; thus reversing the line which the 
schoolboy gets drilled into him when he blunders over his Latin 
grammar. To commit another forgery on me was not so easy; 
for his checks having been previously paid with a notice that no 
more would be paid, he was afraid to face the bankers, to whom 
he was personally known, and who without a letter of credit 
most certainly would not assist him. It then occurred to him, 
that whilst his creditable appearance was still evident, he had 
better resort to the Salon, and there borrow some money from 
the croupiers: they all knew him when his riches flowed in a 
rapid stream, and tended to enrich the large river of ruin to 
which they were contributory. He had already been driven to 
part with some rings, and a watch which in the moments of his 
affluence he had bought: day after day brought him nearer and 
nearer to desperation, and already had the villanous modes of 
procuring resources been familiar' to his mind. Accordingly, 
having dressed himself with much more care than usual, he en- 
tered that place of ingenuity, that hotbed of ruin, that golden lure 
to wretchedness, the Salon des Etrangers. The servants recog- 
nised him at a glance, and he passed to the receiving-room. The 
noble marquis then at the head of the establishment greeted him 
cordially ; and when the merry caster rattled the dice in the box, 
and called out, ^dsept,^ Harry’s soul seemed to bound with de- 
light. He was soon at the table, and soon forgot all his cares 
in the excitement of play. He lost his all, — at that moment he 
had not one farthing in the world. He who could have com- 
manded thousands was now a beggar, and would have been a 
VOL. I. . 7 


74 


WALSINGHAM, 


cheat to have gained a napoleon. He called one of the servants, 
with the practised air of a man of fortune, and commanded rather 
than asked for two thousand francs : it was brought immediately. 
Harry had been known as a man of fortune ; his gallantries had 
been calculated ; and such is Fame, that he whose heart was 
hardened in sin and iniquity, was trumpeted forth as a dashing 
fellow, to whom fortune had been generous, and to whom most 
women had been kind. This is a species df vanity to which most 
Frenchmen aspire : a ^ight intrigue with your best friend’s wife, 
a trifling incestuous intercourse, the seduction of your brother’s 
daughter, the murder of some half-dozen of old companions in 
duels, tend more to elevate than to ruin the character of the hero. 
A Frenchman is always vain of his success with women, and his 
unerring aim in a duel : they talk of it as pleasing trifles, and as 
they sip their claret at the cafes, they defame their victims either 
in virtue or courage. The evening grew towards a close. 
Harry had not been very unsuccessful, for on his return to the 
hotel he deposited seventy napoleons on the table ; so that he 
lost thirty, besides what money he took with him. 

“It was now that reflection, the tax of memory, came too 
late. To enjoy a sound sleep, to awake refreshed from his 
slumbers, to have been blessed with happy dreams such as the 
remembrance of happy hours might produce, were unknown to 
him : he lay in a feverish kind of slumber, and not unfrequently 
some of the servants had overheard him scream during the 
night. His conscience was his hell. Never did the warning 
of that natural monitor ever slumber ; by day, by night, the 
sentinel kept his post : he had been placed there by the com- 
mission of sin, and returning virtue and returning repentance 
came not to relieve him from his labours. The works of ima- 
gination, founded on the scriptural representations of the last 
abode for the wicked, frightened not Harry so much as the con- 
science that bade him turn at every step to see if the hounds of- 
justice were on the scent: his moral courage had flown — he 
dared not to look beyond the grave, although he would gladly 
have courted it to have buried his present fears and reproaches. 
It was this maddening, unceasing fire which consumed him. 
No longer was the stamp of health and youth upon his sallow 
cheek or sunken eye ; no longer did he dare to look the man 
with whom he conversed in the face, — his only courage was 
borrowed from wine, his only relief in the stronger excitement 
of play. 

“ ‘ There,’ said he to himself, — ‘ there is the last heap of 


THE GAMESTER. 


75 


gold I aoi ever destined to enjoy. To enjoy ! — no, no, that is 
past for ever ! How am I to repay this ? I have promised on 
the Thursday following to discharge the debt : I have not a 
friend to whom I can apply ; I dare not, under my own name, 
again commit a theft upon my father. Oh, my poor wife ! driven 
to the grave by me! Would that I had listened to your just 
censures, and, in turning to her who loved me beyond all love, 
have left the paths of dissipation and of idleness ! But now 
And there’s Louisa too, an outcast from the world, a com- 
mon prostitute ; or, perhaps, which galls me ten thousand times 
more, the mistress, the associate, the companion of Cavendish, 
—that devil who lured me to destruction, and by whose arts I 
was driven to commit the forgery. Well, then, I am resolved, 
since 1 cannot struggle against misfortune, I will overcome it. 
It was then for the first time he thought of suicide. He care- 
fully marked down upon paper his various arguments in favour 
of and against the act. His conclusion, which was erroneous, 
— was this, that any man was warranted to lay down a load he 
was too fatigued to carry. He argued not upon the presumption 
of rushing unsummoned into the presence of his Maker with all 
his imperfections on his head. To him relief from life was re- 
lief from care : all pleasures had fleeted away so young and 
so wretched, ’twas hard to bear, when by a struggle, when by 
the slightest motion of a nervous finger, the trigger would rid 
him of himself. It was then he loaded his pistols ; but he de- 
ferred placing the copper-caps in their final situation. He looked 
at them, he put them to his forehead, and saying ‘ Why, it is 
only doing as much as I have done, and all is over,’ ‘ /’// do iV 
was dashed on the paper, ‘ but I’ll live until my creditors are 
clamorous.’ 

“It was on Monday morning that he met two Englishmen 
whom he had frequently seen at the different gaming-houses. 
They were anxious to make Harry’s acquaintance, and he was 
by no means averse to the introduction. They bowed as they 
passed, and Harry stopping, they turned round and soon were 
in conversation. All talked of their losses, but of their resolution 
to return again to recover or to sink lower, and in order to sug- 
gest some plan of play they dined together. An intimacy was 
then established, and from that day until Wednesday morning 
they were frequently together. 

“ ‘ Why, Rockingham,’ said Musgrove, ‘ they treated you 
rudely last night: you must have lost a precious deal — some 
thousands of francs, I am sure ; for I overheard the servants 


76 


WALSINGHAM, 


doubting if they should advance you more money, and although 

they called you bv some other name ’ Harry’s face grew 

red in a trice. ‘ Have you been there this morning to repay 
them V continued Musgrove. 

‘ No,’ replied Harry ; ‘ to-morrow I shall discharge all my 
debts in full, and satisfy the most greedy creditor. By-the-by, 
will you both dine with me to-day at the Mirabeau ? and after 
dinner we can stroll to that infernal place, and so kill the 
evening.’ 

“ Both accepted the invitation. The dinner was fixed for 
seven o’clock — a late hour in Paris, and Harry hastened home- 
wards to give the necessary directions. 

“ At this time and at this hour I was in Paris. No sooner 
had I discharged my duties to my wife than 1 turned to reclaim 
my son. A letter from a friend of mine, my banker there, ap- 
prised me of my son’s being in Paris : he had, he said in his 
letter, seen him at a cafe, and although he had not spoken to 
him, yet he was sure of his face. I lost no time in putting my 
scheme in progress : I had resolved to break in upon his soli- 
tude, and by tears and entreaties to recall him to the fondest and 
most afifectionate of parents. At Calais I hired a carriage and 
proceeded to the capital ; but, oh, how slow — very slow we 
appeared to progress ! Half way on every stage the postilion 
slopped to take his glass of brandy. In vain I urged him on by 
promises of better pay — he smoked with the indifference of a 
Turk, and his whip hung over his shoulders in idleness. I re- 
buked him — he drove slow’^er ; when I recollected the proverb, 

‘ that no two animals were so obstinate as a donkey and a French 
postilion.’ I found all entreaties vain, and I threw myself back 
in the carriage, resolved to pay no more than the tariff. I will 
not weary you with the account of the most tedious journey I 
ever took in my life. The hope of arrival perhaps cheered me 
in my affliction, and when I drove into the court-yard of Meu- 
rice’s, I bounded from my imprisonment with the step and the 
vigour of youth. My first care was to examine the list of visiters 
at the hotel. I found no trace of Harry. Then recollecting that 
he always had resided at the Hotel des Princes, I proceeded in- 
stantly to the Rue Richelieu. From them I gained no informa- 
tion. I then in despair — for Paris is a capital concealing place 
— went to the police. The officers afforded me every informa- 
tion they possessed with that urbanity for which they are so 
justly praised ; but here I was unsuccessful again. I then called 
at the banker’s ; they had not seen him — at least at their bureau. 


THE GAMESTER. 


77 


I inquired at every hotel — yes, even at the Mirabeau — but with 
no better success, until, wearied and fatigued, I returned to place 
myself at a dinner I could not eat, and to be in society whilst I 
felt most lonely. I had not slept for three nights previous to this. 
I felt myself a desert tree in a wilderness ; my only hope, my 
only aim, was the recovery of my son. I pictured to myself a 
delight, to which none but a parent is sensible, in throwing my 
arms round my boy and lavishing forgiveness. Fatigue, how- 
ever, overcame me : a man at my age soon feels the frost of 
years nipping his endeavours. I could not keep awake, and yet 
I was unwilling to sleep. At last the thought occurred to me to 
visit the different gaming-houses ; but some of my companions 
of the table d^hote happening to be in conversation concerning 
these very places, from them I gleaned that no man of any pre- 
tensions to the name of a gentleman frequented the low houses 
in the Palais Royal, and that the play never began at the Salon 
until after midnight, or at any rate the company were few until 
the opera was over. I then retired to my room, left orders to 
be called at eleven, and throwing myself upon my sofa, was soon 
fast asleep.” 


78 


WALSINGHAM, 


CHAPTER IX. 

“ Harry had determined to free himself from his worldly 
debts ; he had wound himself up to the mark, and he now sat 
down to do the last act of grace before he mingled with society, 
borrowing from wine the spirit which nature, with such a load 
upon his mind, and such fearful results, denied him. I have 
mentioned that he seldom walked out in the day-time, and from 
the moment of his parting with his new acquaintances, he turn- 
ed to his room and penned a letter to me. He had desired his 
servant to pack up his clothes, and had given him to under- 
stand that he should cross to England on the Friday ; at the 
same time he ordered his bills at the hotel to be prepared and 
sent up to him, leaving the dinner account as a separate charge. 
His desk he carefully examined, and he destroyed every letter 
he had ever received either from his wife or Louisa. There 
was a small locket containing some hair of the former, which 
he wrapped up in paper, and on the outside were these words : 

‘ For my father.’ It was placed inside the letter, which was di- 
rected to me at my country residence, and which I have here, 
as I knew that this evening would bring me to the end of my 
history. 

“ ‘ This is the last act an ungrateful, an ungenerous, and 
an unduiiful son will commit before he goes hence, and is no 
more seen. My life is now fast growing to a close ; and when 
the clock of the Timbre^ strikes the hour of midnight, my 
father will be childless, and his son in eternity. It is not, best 
of parents, trifles which have driven me to this act of despera- 
tion ; he who has played the deep game of life which I have 
played is already dead : — a wife driven to destruction ; the 
daughter of my friend seduced, and left without a protector and 
without a farthing; myself a forger — a man condemned by the 
laws of his country, and condemned also by himself! a mother 
perhaps hurried to her grave broken-hearted through my faults ; 
a father declining into his tomb without the natural prop to sup- 
port or to comfort him. I could not live, for I am ashamed of 
existence. I would not breathe to be a by-word and a scorn — to 

* The Timbre^ or Stamp-office, is almost directly opposite the Hdtel Mi- 
rabeau. 


THE GAMESTER. 


79 


have the finger of contempt pointed at me — to hear the tongue 
of insolence upbraid me for my forfeited life — to be sneered at 
by those whose society I once shunned — to be Miunned by 
those I once courted. I leave this world its debtor ; and as I 
depart, having swindled those who have ruined me, so likewise 
1 depart cheating the executioner of his due, without one friend 
to close my eyes, or without a companion to receive my last 
words. I have now conquered myself, — I have divested death 
of its terrors by shrouding life in horror. To you I now turn, 
my father and my friend, to implore that forgiveness which I 
dare not supplicate from my God, — to call from your heart one 
tear, and from your voice, when it is raised to your Maker, one 
word in my behalf. Forgive me, father ! forget your repentant 
but your still affectionate son. I know my errors, and I con- 
fess them. It is an awful thing to stand upon the brink of eter- 
nity — to know that to-morrow’s sun which shall rise and shine 
upon this gay and dissolute world, shall never more be looked on 
by me ; it is hard at my tender age to go down into the grave 
whilst the hissings and the hooiings of my fellow-creatures 
shall follow the dead with their reproaches and revilings. Still 
I feel that your prayer — your blessing — shall not be withheld. 
I stretch my arms towards my father, and in the fancied embrace 
I throw my soul to my God, and my last word to my parent. 
— Farewell! farewell! for ever farewell! As I have shunned 
yon in this world, I cannot be so presumptuous as to dream of 
meeting your purer spirit in the next ; but may the great God, 
the sovereign disposer of all things, so fortify your heart, that 
you may receive this with becoming resolution, and accept the 
last prayer, — the last word for your welfare, from your devoted 
— I dare not say your dutiful son. Amen.’ 

“ In a less firm hand, and apparently written nearer his end, 
he calls upon me to protect Louisa.” 

During the time the old gentleman was reading this letter, he 
became dreadfully agitated, and Douglass was so overcome, that 
he was unable almost to breathe. He swallowed the very effort 
at tears, for he felt that he might be called to administer some 
relief to his companion. The old gentleman recovered after 
some minutes, and continued — 

“ Seven o’clock came, and with it his company. They were 
but three in all, and a repast had been prepared sufficient for 
ten. Every dainty of the season had been ordered, and wines 
the most luscious had been cooled. It was singular that my son 
should have actually written down the dishes he had provided ; 


80 


WALSINGHAM, 


and on several small slips of paper were written a few words, 
some of advice, some of warning : on one was ‘ Poor lost 
Louisa! the world will use you worse than I have done ; it has 
no pity for the unfortunate, no tear for the afflicted ; — and at the 
bottom of his desk, although it was evidently written that day, 
was a letter to Louisa, which I will hereafter read to you. I 
mention these incidents to show how capable the mind of man 
is to surmouut every fear of death— -if indeed shrouding life 
with horrors can divest death of its terrors. The dinner was 
announced and served. The conversation took its turn from my 
son, who commenced in glowing terms a vivid description of 
the luxuries of life: from his exposition one would have ima- 
gined him surrounded by every desirable object, in affluence, 
with a conscience void of offence. Then the scene was changed 
for that of the Salon : he projected systems by which fortunate 
results were certain^ he closely commented on the fairness of 
the play, the advantages of the bank, and his conviction that 
calculation could beat that preponderance; and even with the 
determination to commit the rash act, he lied in words, for he 
declared his intention of recovering his losses, and talked of to- 
morrow as if to-morrow was to dawn on him. Again the con- 
versation changed, and women became the theme of admiration : 
no flush of guilt branded the cheek of the seducer ; he revelled 
in luxurious description, and in his vivid delineation no modesty 
interfered to check the current of his discourse — it seemed to 
wanton in the remembrance of the past, and he drew from his 
own heart the picture most likely to warm his companions. 
Neither was the wine spared, nor the wit silent ; in short, it 
was a carouse calculated to give His new associates the highest 
opinion of his talents and affluence. The hours advanced, for 
his life was now pitted against lime, — and ‘he who combats 
against that,’ says Johnson, ‘ has an enemy not subject to many 
casualties.’ The sand was rapidly oozing through the glass of 
existence ; it wanted but one short hour of death — the clock 
had already struck eleven, yet no symptom of remorse for an ill- 
spent life was visible ; he seemed to have passed the worst, and 
only to dread solitude, — for when his companions proposed to 
withdraw, having already drunk more than the cool gamester 
should touch, my son asked as a favour that they would 
remain until midnight, and then one glass should be drunk to 
their future friendship — and thm. It was remarked by Mus- 
grove that a sudden paleness blanched my son’s cheeks ; but he 
recovered himself, and placing some cigars on the table, — for he 


THE GAMESTER. 


81 


had the ruling passion still in death, — he called for some brandy, 
and their conversation continued. Eleven came, and I was 
called, refreshed by my comfortable and sound sleep. I instantly 
departed for those hells of infamy. I entered Frascati’s. There 
were sallow faces, starting eyes, anxious looks, and horrible 
silence; around the board some women of low character flitted, 
keeping the victims of passions — of unruly passions — within 
their grasp ; but no Harry was there. I scanned every coun- 
tenance. I passed round and round that table, but my son was 
not amongst those who debased their characters or staked their 
fortunes. I now crossed the Boulevards to the Salon. This 
golden region of demoralization was open. The splendid 
lamps shone through the windows, and the crowd of servants 
waiting in the hall, all of whom belonged to the establishment, 
convinced me that here my son would be found ; for, in all his 
worst habits, the love of low company had never been his vice. 
I was denied admittance, as it was requisite I should be present- 
ed to the marquis, and he had not arrived. I stated myself to 
be the father of Harry ; and the waiter who had advanced the 
money before mentioned, instantly informed me that my son 
was in Paris, and was expected there after midnight. To my 
question of his abode there was some delay ; but a book being 
consulted, I was told he resided at the Hotel Mirabeau. It 
wanted now but a quarter of twelve ; and as the night was cold 
I resolved to walk. With the firm step of happiness I passed 
along the Boulevards. I heeded not the brilliant cafes, I re- 
garded not the hundreds who interrupted my path ; I pushed 
through the crowds ; I smiled within myself at the completion 
of my happiness, and I felt more satisfaction at reclaiming my 
son, than if he had fallen at my feet, and prayed for pardon. I 
rang at the hotel door ; and as the porter pulled the string, I 
remember the impetuous push I used to open the heavy gates. 
I asked for my son — they knew him not ; I looked at the list — 
no name like his was there. I described him as I remembered 
him. The porter shook his head ; at last he said, ‘ There is an 
Englishman who lives here, and only one, but his name is 
Rockingham ; here is a letter for some one of the name you 
mentioned:’ and he showed me a note, which I afterwards 
found was an invitation to dinner at the Salon. I was con- 
vinced Rockingham was my son — hope is not easily extin- 
guished ; I insisted on seeing that Englishman, and after some 
little delay his servant was called to conduct me np stairs. At 
that moment the clock at the Timbre struck the hour of mid- 


82 


WALSINGHAM, 


night. I heard a cheer— I recognised the voice of my son — I 
flew to the door, and oh ! horror, horror ! no tongue can tell, 
no words explain, as I turned the latch I heard the report of a 
pistol, and bursting through the apartment and following the 
two companions, I arrived to throw myself upon the bleeding 
corpse of my son ! He never spoke — life was gone. In vain 
I called upon him in all the fond accents of endearment — he 
was gone, he was dead ! I pressed him to my bosom, I chafed 
his temples — I hugged him, kissed him, forgave him, blessed 
him, — but ah ! no words responded to mine, no movement of 
the compressed lips attempted an answer, but over the once 
vivid eye death had exercised its greatest power, and the glassy 
stare of the dead was too convincing even for the sanguine hope 
of a father. Then from the fulness of that hope came despair; 
I cried out ‘/am his father — save him, save him !’ and I fainted. 

“ How long I remained I know not ; but when I came to my- 
self I found the room occupied by the dead, his former com- 
panions, the commissary of police, and one or two gendarmes. 
Some doubt seemed to be entertained by those gentlemen con- 
cerning his death, for one pistol was on the bed loaded, and the 
other, which had just been discharged, was found in a drawer so 
little open as almost to have rendered it impossible to have 
placed it there without opening the drawer. The suspicions of 
the police fell upon his companions ; and had not the letters 
been found in which he announced his intention of committing 
the act, those gentlemen would have been placed under a sur- 
veillance not very agreeable. I heeded not their interrogatives, 
I listened not to their surmises or suspicions ; I stood at the 
feet of the last of my hopes ; I saw my son — my only, my dear 
loved son, a corpse. I gazed in horrid silence; there stretched 
upon the floor was the being in whom I had centred all my af- 
fection ! I now saw not the dark parts of his character ; — I 
remembered only the days of his youth, and memory portrayed 
all the kind endearments of infancy ; I stood riveted to the spot, 
until, overcome by my grief, my head grew weaker, and feeling 
a sudden giddiness, 1 was unable to support myself, and fell 
upon the body. 

“ Spare me the recital of the last offices. He lies in Pere 
Lachaise, the spot he disdained to visit when alive ; and an epi- 
taph, such as he himself had drawn for others, records his virtue 
and his age. 

“ To the last he had been himself : towards midnight he never 
once seemed to flag in conversation, or to sadden at the ap^ 


THE GAMESTER. 


83 


proach of his death-warning; on the contrary, he seemed to re- 
buke the laziness of time, and once' or twice looked at his 
watch and wondered that so few minutes had flown. Just be- 
fore the clock sounded, he filled his glass, and standing up, gave 
with a clear voice, a sparkling eye, and a steady hand, ‘ Those 
who love us.’ I heard the cheers. He then merely desired 
his companions ‘ to wait, as he was about to change his state ,'^ — 
those were his words, — ‘ in order to play for a larger stake than 
he had as yet attempted.’ Not a minute elapsed between the 
words and the act, and thus he fell. 

“I have plucked out my heart, Robert, in order to warn you 
from the dangers of the path he followed. Here in a few words 
are comprised all that idleness can lead to. On this score I 
need hardly have troubled you, for I have watched your occu- 
pations and think them creditable. Remember that Fortune 
may yet smile upon you ; and beware, when she has once be- 
stowed her gifts, how you blindly follow in her train. Believe 
me, men are happier in mediocrity ; the rich and the great are 
hated and envied, the poor are scorned and despised. It is in the 
middling classes that most happinsss is found. Never, there- 
fore, should the gifts of this world be lavished on yon, seek to 
increase your store by risking what you have to gain a little 
more; nor hazard that, the loss of which might cause the 
slightest regret. And now, Robert, I end my miseries. You 
see why I shun mankind; you know why I feel myself the 
poor unfriended wretch I am. Riches are to ine no inducement 
to live ; they cannot purchase me the revival of my son, and 
without him I care not to exist. I am alone, not one of my 
blood remains alive ; and I care not to herd with those who 
can have no real interest in my welfare.” 

“ Stop, sir !” exclaimed Robert; “ before I thank you for the 
good advice — before I comment upon the mazes of misfortune 
into which your son rushed and plunged you, do grant me the 
favour to inform me of the fate of Louisa. Although a fallen 
woman, she risked all for love ; and perhaps there may still be 
i lime to warn her of the misery of approaching age, and to assist 
i her in such a manner as to restore her to some of the comforts 
j she once enjoyed,” 

“ Would you do so, Robert, if you met her ?” 

“ Most certainly. Sir,” he replied. “ Poor as I an;, I could 
still find a little to assist one who has lost all by her betrayed 
confidence in one of our sex.” 

“ Generous fellow !” replied the old man : first hear this let- 


84 


WALSINGIIAM, 


ter, which was written six hours before my son’s death. I hope 
his repentance was sinqere ; because if it were not, he must 
have been to his last moment a hypocrite and a liar. I will not 
believe that any man upon the brink, of eternity is sufficiently 
daring to rush uncalled into the presence of his Maker with a 
lie on his lips, or a falsehood in his heart.” He read the letter, 
which was as follows :• — 

“ Before I quit this world, I will do you the justice you de- 
serve, and confess the faults and the crimes which have urged 
me to suicide. I once loved you, tenderly, sincerely : at that 
time the last drop of my blood would cheerfully have been shed 
to save your name from the blight my own conduct had en- 
tailed upon it. The love of play overcame the love of all that 
was beautiful — all that was affectionate ; and when I resolved 
to leave you at Spa, I knew you were innocent — I knew you 
would never submit to the embraces of a man y^ou most 
thoroughly despised ; but I felt the necessity of leaving you to 
ensure my own safety. Hereafter my crimes and my misdeeds 
may come before you ; but I will not embitter the moments 
more than my death will do, by convincing you that your love 
was lavished on a forger and a swindler. Return, Louisa, re- 
turn to your family ; they still are ready to receive you with 
open arms, and parental fondness, and by sincere repentance for 
the injury you have done them, an earnest promise of future 
amendment, and a resolution to live honestly, repair in some 
measure the mischief you have done, and which was occasion- 
ed by me. Eve-n now, standing as I am upon the brink of the 
grave, with all the terrors of death before me, the retrospect of 
early acquaintance rushes over my memory, and, dearest Louisa, 

I see you beaming in beauty and in love. But, oh ! forgive 
me, for I then really loved you : I gave a proof of that devoted- 
ness when I left my wife, blighted my character, broke my 
oath, renounced my God, for you. Bnt now the hours fly; the 
last sand is oozing through the glass, — my min'utes are number- 
ed ; yet Heaven is my witness that I ask not its forgiveness 
with more sincerity than I solicit your pardon. I have left a 
letter for my father, and have implored him to provide for you. 

I urge you again to return to those who still will cherish you ; and 
I feel a calmness even at this dreadful time in the assurance of 
your repentance and your future happiness. Again, again for- 
give me — pardon me, and offer one prayer for your once be- 
loved Harry.” . 

The old gentleman folded the letter and replaced it in his box. 


THE GAMESTER. 


85 


He wiped some tears from his cheeks, which had rapidly cours- 
ed down the furrows of his face, and saying “ Thank God, it 
is done,” he became more composed. After a pause of some 
minutes, during which time he fixed his eyes upon the cheerful 
fire, he exclaimed, “ Such was Louisa ; and now, thank Heaven, 
she is in comfort and in affluence, — but bitter was the path that 
led to it. 

“ When* Harry left her at Spa,” resumed the old man, “ Ca- 
vendish was at her side. She recovered only to ascertain the 
confirmation of her worst fears, and to be subjected to the com- 
pany of the man she loathed and detested.^ She did not hate 
him — for no one can hate who never loved ; she despised him. 
When sufficiently recovered, she told him her determination 
never to admit him into her society; and he as resolutely 
resolved to follow her to destruction : he even dwelt upon the 
consummation of his plan with a hellish delight. The charac- 
ter of Harry was now gone : no man of honour could associate 
with one who had so shamefully violated the laws oven of 
the most abandoned. To have left Louisa to struggle against 
the world, withq^t the slightest idea where to turn, or whither 
to go, was the act of a coward ; yet, as I said before, had he 
not previously determined to abandon her, I could have forgiven 
him his suspicions of her fidelity, since the evidence, offered 
as it was, and the only half-read letter, would have staggered a 
belter man. Cast now upon the world, she lost no time, in 
leaving Spa. The carriage which had been left, and the notes 
Harry had thrown, offered convenience and the means of travel- 
ling respectably. Her maid accompanied her, for the idea of 
seeing Paris again consoled her for her debased situation : more- 
over, it was believed that she was in the pay of Cavendish. 

“ The next morning at daybreak witnessed the departure of 
Louisa, who took the shortest road through Namur to Paris. 
Overcome by fatigue and anxiety of mind, this poor forlorn 
creature, whose fortune was now contained in her purse, and 
who saw the necessity of husbanding it carefully, resolved to 
pass the night in the former city. She had not long been housed 
before the door opened, and Cavendish entered and again im- 
portuned her. 

“ ‘ Once for all, hear me and listen to me,’ said Louisa. 

‘ There is no power on earth shall ever make me yours. To 
you I am indebted for my present misery ; I have still heart 
enough and courage enough to despise you ; and I warn you, 
that so surely as you molest me, so surely will I inform the 

VOL. I. 8 


86 


WALSINGHAM, 


police of the annoyance. Quit this room directly.’ And thus 
saying, she gave no time for an answer, but rang the bell. Ca- 
vendish instantly retired, muttering something about ‘ the world’s 
end, and satisfied revenge.’ 

“ On Louisa’s arrival in Paris, she boldly drove to her ' 
father’s former door. She was relieved from all those feelings 
which must have been uppermost in her mind, by the porter’s 
informing her that three months previously the family had left 
Paris — he believed for England. She did not remain one 
moment in suspense how to act, but ordering horses, directed 
her steps towards Calais. She took the Amiens road, and pass- 
ed through Clermont not ten minutes after the arrival of Harry. 
Having arrived at the coast, she discharged her maid, who in- 
stantly crossed the Channel. She then sold the carriage, and 
making her luggage as convenient as possible, she counted her 
fortune, which at that moment amounted to forty pounds ster- 
ling, after having paid her bill at the hotel. She now crossed 
the water to Dover, and presented herself at the Custom-house. 
She was not troubled with many new dresses, and even the 
sharks of the Customs could not lessen her fortune by placing 
an ad valorem duty upon a bonnet. A porter carried her bag- 
gage, and directed her to a small inn not far from the ship. It 
was dark, the streets greasy and wet, and the dim light of the 
lamps shone not with sufficient lustre to show the face of a 
female who walked close by her, and who stopped at a liitle 
distance from a brilliant apothecary’s shop in order to scrutinise 
Louisa’s features as she passed the light. The stranger then 
crossed the street, and continued to watch her until she was 
safely lodged in the small inn. The agitation of Louisa’s mind 
perhaps is a sufficient reason why she did not more particularly 
observe this stranger ; but towards nine o’clock, and previous to 
her going to bed, she chanced to look from her window, and 
there opposite the house were Cavendish and her former servant, 
whose figure she could not fail to recognise. Her curiosity made 
her watch them ; and in order to do so unobserved, she extin- 
guished the lights, and by degrees managed to open a little of the 
window. It was evident to her that they wished to ascertain if 
she was going on to London that night ; for when ten o’clock 
struck and the mail drove off, she heard Cavendish say, ‘ She is 
safe until to-morrow, so good night,’ and immediately afterwards, 
they separated. It must be owned that many females would not 
altogether dislike the romantic attachment of a man who had 
travelled this distance with apparently one only object in view. 


THE GAMESTER. 


87 


and that object a woman : many a heart has been softened by 
such attention, and those who argue with Richard, that woman 
may sometimes be taken, 

“ ‘ In her heart’s extremes! hate, 

With curses in her mouth, tears in her eye, 

The bleeding witness of her hatred by.” 

would not wonder if Louisa’s resentment was a little stifled by 
this marked attention. But she knew him well, and yet could 
not understand why, if his revenge had been satiated upon 
Harry, he should now turn round upon her. It was all in vain 
to think upon the subject, — that he had followed her was evi- 
dent, and that he would continue so to do was more than rea- 
sonable. 

“ The inside of the Phoenix had the honour of conveying 
Louisa to town. Her maid was an outside passenger, but there 
was no appearance of Cavendish. Louisa would have spoken 
to the hard-hearted Mary Lancing, and would have endeavoured 
to have extracted the secret of her company-keeping with Ca- 
vendish ; but the coach was full inside, and no opportunity 
offered during the journey to put her intentions into execution.^ 
The coach drove to the Circus in Piccadilly ; and on inquiry, 
Louisa learnt that there was an inn nearly opposite, to which 
she immediately went, and having engaged a room at as cheap 
a rate as possible, her boxes were removed and she housed. 

“ Mary had watched her, and the next day Cavendish was 
there. He sent her letter after letter, — he changed his manner 
from the haughty to the solicitous — he offered her every thing 
but his hand, and it was quite in vain that Louisa again and 
again refused the proffered attention. Her object was to find 
her parents ; and the only means to effect it was to send a boy 
with a note in a disguised hand to her former governess, \vho 
had left her family previously to their going abroad, and who was 
now living in Portland Place. The note appeared more like 
one from a tradesman than a lady, and the answer which fixed 
the fate of Louisa was, that ‘ the Stanhopes had been for some 
time in Paris ; but that the last accounts of them were from 
Rome, where they intended to stay the winter.’ 

“It was not until this moment that Louisa wavered. She had 
now no living soul to whom she could apply ; she did not know 
my address; and it was not likely that the father would counte-. 
nance the frailties of the son, when the object of charity ^ was 


88 


WALSINGHAM, 


the cause of all his misfortunes. Cavendish still pressed his 
suit, and day after day saw the slender resources of Louisa 
gently ebbing away. She had advertised for the place of a 
governess ; she had offered herself as a lady’s-maid ; she had 
subjected herself to the greatest annoyances; she had been 
rudely rejected by those her inferiors in every respect but for- 
tune : she could give no references, she could get no character ; 
and although blessed with every intellectual resource, she found 
herself gradually getting towards her last shilling. Hitherto she 
had paid punctually, and even now did not owe a farthing ; but 
day after day saw the slender store reduced, and day after day 
she was mortified by continued refusals. 

“Cavendish had scarcely ever let her out of his sight; it 
was now that he implored an interview ; and Louisa, actually 
softened by attention which the most devoted lover in Christen- 
dom could not have surpassed, admitted him. In this interview 
Cavendish extracted from her the low state of her finances, and 
seemed now to starve the enemy he could not conquer. He 
regretted seriously her forlorn condition ; he saw no chance of 
her success in finding a place, although Heaven knew how sin- 
cere he w'as in wishing her to earn an honest livelihood ; he 
warmly participated in her distress, and would do all he could 
to alleviate it ; he was unfortunately a little pressed for money 
himself, but he trusted that in a day or tw^o he should be able to 
ofier her some relief until she could be respectably provided for. 
Louisa was blinded by this feeling allusion to her situation ; and 
in the belief that Cavendish would call the next day, she con- 
tinued at her lodgings until her last farthing was gone. She then 
procured supplies by the sale of her clothes. She could not 
believe even in her own destitution. She literally lived almost 
upon air, for she contracted all her expenses into sufficient only to 
keep herself alive ; but day after day passed, dress after dress 
had been pledged, until the once gay, beautiful, beloved Louisa 
— the darling of her father’s house, — the life, the spirit of all 
society, was left with nothing but the clothes upon her back, 
and without one farthing in the whole world. 

“ She now began to despond. She had gone through four 
days of the week, and on the seventh she had always punctual- 
ly paid : her altered appearance would have excited suspicion, 
and now she seldom ventured abroad, for her destitution was 
evident in her dress. The fatal Monday came, and with it 
came lb« bill. It is no true woman who cannot find an excuse ; 
and she, with the air of one who could discharge it, said, 


THE GAMESTER. 


89 


‘ Leave it there, and I will send the money.’ But servants have 
quick eyes : the decrease of her wardrobe had not been unno- 
ticed ; the maid who attended upon her knew that some of her 
dresses had disappeared ; and the landlord, duly informed of 
this, was resolved she should not escape to his disadvantage. 
He soon made his appearance, and on learning the truth was not 
slow in upbraiding her. Finding that nothing remained, he 
wisely thought that an empty house was better than a bad 
tenant, and gave her notice to quit directly. In vain she im- 
plored to be allowed to remain, — in vain she declared the re- 
spectability of her birth and her connexions, and her certainly 
that a friend would soon relieve her, — every fact was against her, 
excepting her hitherto punctuality of payment. She was told 
to depart, and in sorrowful steps she was turned from the house 
with all her worldly goods upon her back. 

“ It was about four o’clock, and winter had long since begun. 
Cold, biting cold blew the wind ; a small rain and thick fog 
contributed to render her situation truly pitiable. She stood 
near the door from which she had been spurned, insulted by the 
wanton as they passed, and rebuked by some of low habits for 
being in their walk. The hours crept on, and still Louisa saw 
no prospect of a better fate than a lock-up house. She had 
called, and again had been denied admission to the inn. Her 
tender frame, unaccustomed to exposure, would soon feel the 
severity of the winter’s cold ; she trembled as she wound closer 
and closer around her the folds of her last rema^ining shawl. 
Attracted by the beauty of her figure, several people in passing 
turned to look at her, and she as invariably turned away, until 
one more resolute than the rest took her hand and whispered in 
her ear — ‘ Mine at last !’ — It was Cavendish. 

“ ‘ Save me, save me, Mr. Cavendish, from the misery of this 
cruel night ! I am without a farthing ; I am destitute of food, 
of clothing.; oh, hear my prayer, and turn not away from my 
supplications !’ 

“ ‘ It is good,’ said Cavendish in a low tone, ‘ to humble 
pride. My revenge now feels the thrill of delight ! Louisa at 
my feet, a pauper, without a home, without food, without a 
friend !’ 

*“ Oh, say not so, Mr. Cavendish! say not so, I implore 
you ! You know to what I was born, and what I had ; assist 
me, and every farthing shall be repaid if I work until I die.’ 

“ ‘ The usual tone of all you women 1’ replied this infernal 
demon. ‘ You run into debt, and then you go upon the town 

8 » 


90 


WALSINGHAM, 


to procure money. I have no silver about me, neither have I 
any halfpence ; but you are young and pretty, and cannot want 
long.’ 

“ ‘ Cruel, cruel man, thus to insult one whom you have 
ruined ! Even now I despise you more than I did. Restore 
me a guinea of the money you swindled from Harry, and re- 
lieve your conscience of some of the load which will before long 
press heavily upon you.’ 

“ ‘ A very pretty way of asking charity, upon my soul ! But 
I cannot remain here in the wet and cold, liable to suspicion 
from some of my friends who might pass in their carriages. 
Besides, I have to dine with Lord Plausible, and I promised to 
go to the theatre afterwards ; and, as our liule drunken divine at 
Coo used to say, ‘ we must make the most of the good things 
of this life.’ Ah, Louisa! you have had your swing: you re- 
member our little drunken parson at Coo?’ 

“ ‘ I can scarcely believe my ears,’ replied Louisa. ‘ You 
who sued for me almost on your knees — you who have fol- 
lowed me to this step of ruin, — you who promised to assist 
me but a week ago, now to taunt me with the remembrance of 
my happier days, and to make me feel my degradation by thus 
asking charity of you !’ 

“ ‘ Fortune’s wheel, my pretty Louisa, is always turning ; 
and this you know, that any turn it takes now must be for your 
welfare. I imagine you cannot be much worse than you are, 
and therefore 1 propose one alternative : I will take you to a 
house where some of your sex reside, and I dare say you will 
find a generous friend in the lady who keeps the establishment. 
Thus far I ^an assist you : but I again repeat, I have no time 
to lose, and this chilling wind cuts me in half.’ 

“ ‘ Then think,’ replied Louisa, ‘ what / suffer, deprived of 
half my usual garments 1 But that cold is trifling to the misery 
I feel whilst I look around me at this town of splendour and of 
noise, and find myself unknown to all but yourself, and actually 
starving in the streets.’ 

“ Why don’t you get work then, and not live in idleness ?’ 
replied Cavendish. 

“ ‘ Stop, stop, — for Heaven’s, if not for mercy’s sake, stop ! 
I cannot bear it. I have become a beggar to you, because I 
really thought that you had some regard for me. I cannot bear the 
insult, — I cannot longer remain to be taunted, to be thus abused. 
Once more I appeal to your charity, to your own feelings : and 
if I fail, here will I die !’ 


THE GAMESTER. 


91 


“ ‘ Be mine, Louisa V 

“ ‘Never, never!’ she replied. 

“ ‘ Come, I will relieve you.’ 

“ Louisa immediately advanced, and was about to place her 
arm in his, more from protection than from any familiarity ; but 
Cavendish, who enjoyed the misery of his victim, instantly 
withdrew his, saying, ‘ Follow me ? Good God ! what would 
my friends think if I were seen walking arm-in-arm with 
you !’ 

“ Vain, very vain would be the attempt to describe the feel- 
ings of this poor girl. She was a woman of more spirit than I 
ever remembered to have seen, — for I have seen her: she would 
have sacrificed her life any minute in the day for the man she 
loved ; she' could brave danger few would face ; and had she not 
lost that gem which adorns the female, and which hurls her from 
society when it is lost, she might have been justly the envy of 
her sex. Believe not this, Robert, the tale of an old imbecile; 
every word is strictly, religiously true. She lives at this moment, 
rescued from her degradation and restored to her family. 

“ ‘ Whither are you leading me, Mr. Cavendish ? I cannot 
go much farther ; for if you leave me I shall lose my way in 
these alleys and courts.’ 

“ Cavendish stopped, and then said, ‘ I really cannot provide 
for you now — I forgot I was to dine early' — you must walk 
about and keep yourself warm by exercise ; here is sixpence, 
and if every body gave you as much you would be richer than I 
am. It’s coming on to rain quite hard ; I dare say you wish 
you were in your snug w'arm apartments in the Hotel de Fiandre 
— you were comfortable enough then. Now hear me Louisa : 
you despised me, now I shall see you by to-morrow as despica- 
ble as woman can be — your darling Harry is now revelling, in 
luxury, you are starving — your seducer is in warmth and com- 
fort, you in coldness and despair. Good night.’ And he called 
a coach, into which he jumped and left her. 

“ Louisa was now alone. She walked in solitude ; she saw 
about her those who abandoned ihemselves^ — who yielded to 
their appetites; she heard the language from which decency 
turns her ear, and modesty is startled and alarmed : which ever 
way she walked, she met with insult from the men, and abuse 
from her own sex ; and needless, of course, it is for me to sha- 
dow her feelings — her bitter feelings and remorse, ^he had 
walked until eleven at night, and was then near St. James’s Pa- 
lace. She turned to the right, ascended St. James’s Street, and 


92 


WALSlNGHAM, 


then taking Piccadilly, she walked on at a rapid pace, not know- 
ing where she was going, until she came to Park Lane ; and as 
at that time the brilliancy of gas-lights was unknown, that street 
assumed a dark and melancholy appearance. 

“ I have reason to remember Park Lane ; for had not my legs 
been good, I should have left the contents of my pocket in a 
stranger’s hand. There is, not far from where the houses end 
on the Park side, a small lane which terminates in a mews, and 
on its left is a flight of steps leading into Curzon Street. On 
these steps at midnight was seated the once envied Louisa. The 
weather had continued to grow worse ; the wind was high, the 
rain more constant, the cold more intense. In vain she now had 
recourse to prayer — in vain she turned over and over in her 
mind the thousand ways by which the millions in this world 
gain a livelihood ; at this hour of the night she knew she could 
not appeal to the affluent — she knew not where to apply, and 
all the natural resources of her mind failed to offer relief. The 
drowsy watchman as he passed her said, 

“ ‘ Why, young woman, I think you had better go home.’ 

, “ She looked up, and in a faint voice said, ‘ I have no 
home.’ 

“ ‘ No home ? Why, where do you live ?’ 

“ ‘ Here,’ replied the poor creature. 

“ Lord bless me,’ continued the watchman, ‘ how ’toxication 
is gaining ground !’ and walked on. 

“ The guardian returned, having called out ‘ Past twelve, and 
a cloudy night.’ ‘ What, still here !’ said he, shaking her gently 
by the shoulder. ‘ Why don’t you go home ? I say, you 
mustn’t be laying about the steps in this way, — you must go 
home, or I must take you to the watch-house.’ Saying which, 
he placed his lantern near her face and discovered her fair fea- 
tures. ‘ Why, what a pity surely ! and such a pretty girl, too ! 
Why, this is a bad station you have taken.’ 

“ Whilst this was going forward, and the night-guardian was 
becoming a little amorous, three or four young men in high 
spirits were heard advancing, and the watchman left Louisa 
and continued his rounds. 

“ ‘ For the love of Heaven, have pity, gentlemen, upon the 
most miserable of human creatures !’ said Louisa, as two of the 
party approached ; but as they gained the steps, one said : 
♦ Well, good night, Charles, I shall see you early to-morrow;’ 
to which the other replied, ‘ God bless you ! and take my advice, 
leave off that private play, it will ruin you, as it has done 


THE GAMESTER. 


93 


thousands.’ A thrill, an indescribable thrill ran through the 
veins of Louisa ; she felt as if the hope from being crushed 
had sprung into new existence, and as the stranger was about 
to descend the steps, she said : ‘ He who can give such good 
advice to a friend, will not deny his counsel to the afflicted.’ 

“ Struck by the very unusual appeal, and from one who 
seemed the lowest of the low, Charles stopped. There was 
something in the tone of voice which caught his attention : 
there was a sort of sublimity in the mode of soliciting charity, 
that he, of a sound and curious mind, could not have passed. 
‘ In what way can I by my advice serve you, my little girl ?’ 
said Charles kindly. ‘ Why, you look, as far as one can guess 
from that lamp’s assistance, both young and in sad distress ; and 
from the manner you have used in addressing me, you must 
have seen better days.’ 

“These were the first kind words that Louisa had heard 
since her actual misery ; and they came, too, in a voice of bene- 
volence, and a voice which seemed familiar to her ear. She 
burst into tears, and replied : ‘ I am an outcast; — I, who have 
known splendour, have now no bed on which to lay my ex- 
hausted frame — no home to shelter me from this cruel night.’ 

“ ‘ Who and what are you V said Charles. 

“ ‘ A daughter of affliction — one who suffered her love to 
conquer her discretion ; who has been left by him who ruined 
her, and who is now an outcast and a pauper.’ 

“ ‘ Ah, that appeal shall not be in vain to me !’ replied 
Charles ; ‘ for at this moment, my own,''my dear Louisa may be 
a forlorn wretch ! — Good God ! what ails you ? Let me lift you 
again. Here, watchman, bring your lantern here.’ 

“ ‘ Nay, nay, do not let him come. I fell from weakness. I 
was afraid you were going to harrow my very soul by some 
recital. But do not — and that name too — it cannot be !’ 

“ ‘ Most heartily glad I am to see yon so moved ; it is a sign 
of a repentant spirit. I am no clergyman, but, thank God ! I am 
a man. If my own dear sister could but be reclaimed, even by 
the vicissitudes of fortune which you have undergone, I would 
receive her, and even Harry should be forgiven.’ 

“ Louisa leaped upon her feet, and turning the stranger to- 
wards the light, looked for a second time upon his face, and 
falling with her arms round his neck, exclaimed ‘ Charles Stan- 
hope, forgive — forgive your sister !’ 

“ I need tell you no more,” continued the good old man as he 
wiped the tears from his face. 


94 


WALSINGHAM, 


“ 1 knew that Charles' Stanhope, who had entered the army 
shortly after my son first became acquainted with him in Paris, 
was in London ; and on my return to England after the burial 
of Harry, 1 hastened to discover his abode. I found him with 
Louisa under his roof. I did all that wealth and affluence could 
do to restore her to her former position — I placed her in inde- 
pendence ; and I have thus endeavoured to make some trifling 
amends for the injury she sustained by my son’s conduct. She 
is since married. She has lived to see Cavendish altered in his 
dress and manner, almost a vagrant on the parish ; nay, he has 
even solicited charity from her — he has sued to her he nearly 
ruined ; and I loved Louisa with a father’s love when I heard 
that she had discovered the almost unknown retreat of that ru- 
ined scoundrel, and had sent him some money, with merely these 
words in the envelope, ‘ From Louisa Stanhope to Mr. Caven- 
dish.’ 

“ Robert, in this world true is the Scripture— ‘ Man is born 
unto misery as the sparks fly upwards.’ It is our duty to live 
for others as well as ourselves ; and let me implore you not to 
spurn the abject creature of distress, or insult the fallen by ridi- 
culing their miseries ; and be this engraven in your heart, that 
when it shall please God tb bless you with a wife and a family, 
beware of the danger of idleness ; implant in your children a 
due and proper sense of religion, — teach them to be honourable ; 
make it their boast to be gentlemen in the fullest acceptation of 
the term : and remember, that early habits of reverence to God 
and obedience to their parents is best inculcated by example; 
for true is the saying of Johnson, ‘ Religion, the rewards of 
which are distant, and which are animated merely by faith and 
hope, would glide by degrees from the mind if they were not 
reinvigorated and reim pressed by constant calls to worship, and 
by the salutary influence of example,^ 

“ And now good night ! You have a spice of the proper gen- 
tleman in your manner — you know that it is not the coat which 
makes the man ; and little did you dream when you opened your 
pew-door to the poor, old, and apparently wretched, pilgrim, 
that you admitted a man who could command every luxury in 
life, but who cannot enjoy them. Here I could remain ” 

“ Then do remain,” interrupted Robert. “ Here you are wel- 
come : whatever I have is at your service.” 

“ Many thanks to you, Robert ! — may God bless yon, and . 
grant you happiness in this life ! Good night again. Do not •; 
alarm yourself if you hear me moving during the night : I am 
an old curiosity, and must have my way. Good night !’* 


^THE GAMESTER. 


95 


CHAPTER X. 


Robert felt considerably relieved when the old gentleman left 
him and retired to rest. The story of Harry and Louisa struck 
deep in his heart ; and when he turned in a restless, feverish 
manner upon his pillow, he thought of the rascality of the man 
who thus could use a woman. O that he had treasured up the 
sayings of that man in his heart ! O that he had never left him ! 
His resolutions as to future conduct were like the repentance of 
the sick reprobate : relieve him of his malady, and his evil pro- 
pensities return ; physic him back into health, and you purge 
out his penitence. Sad picture of human frailties, but not 
overdrawn. 

Douglass awoke rather later the following morning, and to his 
surprise learned that his old friend had departed — not this life, 
but from his house. The maid told him, that about six o’clock 
she found the gentleman in the hall, with the portmanteau 
packed, and brushing — if it is not a Hibernicism — his hat with a 
silk handkerchief. He desired her always to use her master’s 
the same way ; “ brusbes are bad things,” he said, “ and only 
invented by tailors to ruin clothes before they were half worn 
out.” He put five shillings into the girl’s hands, and said, — 

“ Now tell your master to remember me ; but I desire you will 
not awake him, and tell him that I have left his house. Thank 
you, my pretty lass, I will carry my own portmanteau so, here 
I am outside, and God bless the owner ! for I have had more real 
pleasure in this house, humble as it is, than in the costly palace 
I call my own. Do you, Mary, give my kindest remembrance 
to your master, and tell him he shall hear from me when he least 
expects it. Good-b’ye, my little rosy-faced damsel ! Why, 
you look like the first blush of dawn upon a spring morning ! If 
I had your health and happiness, you might have my age and 
purse — and I should be a gainer by the exchange.” 

“ Have you any idea, Mary, what may be his name ?” asked 
Douglass. 

“ No, sir,” replied the little servant, who had been much flat- 


96 


WALSTNGHAM, 


lered by the old man’s compliments, and who exulted in her 
riches — her crown, — “No, sir, I never could find out; and 
although I did use the privilege of our sex, curiosity, yet all I 
could discover were the letters on a pocket-handkerchief which 
he one morning forgot to put in his pocket: they were worked 
in the same coloured silk as the pocket-handkerchief itself, and 
made out a B and an H ; and on his portmanteau, just over the 
lock, and under the leather, was a small round plate with an H 
upon it.” 

“ Did you never see any letters of his, Mary ?” continued 
Douglass ; “ for you seem to have made use of your eyes. Did 
you ^never see any papers, — in short, any thing that had his 
name upon it ?” 

“ Never, sir, and I am sure I tried all I could ; for he was so 
kind in his manner to me, that I wanted very much to remem- 
ber his name.” 

“ Just run over to the inn, and find out if he went by the 
Cheltenham coach,” said Douglass ; “ ox if he went in a post- 
chaise ; — 'in short, find out all you can about him. But stop, — 
put the kettle on the hob first, and get breakfast.” 

Robert looked at the vacant place at his table as a kind hus- 
band does when his wife has deserted him : he seemed to have 
lost a companion that he had known for years. For the last 
two days he had assumed a kind of parental sway, and had 
managed the fire and the coal-skultle as if they were his own 
property : he certainly hardly fed the fire, and nearly starved 
his host with cold. 

Mary’s return produced no desirable communication. “ He 
had gone by one of- the early coaches, not to Cheltenham, but 
to London.' They knew nothing about him, and wanted if pos- . 
sible to know less. They wondered how a gentleman who had 
always behaved himself as such could house and feed such a 
miserable curmudgeon, and allow such a skinflint to peck and 
perch in his roost.” 

“Very well,” thought Douglass to himself, “ the world may 
scoff and sneer, the old maids may turn up their eyes and their 
noses, but I shall ever be proud of having given that old man 
the run of my house: he has at any rate, to use the language of 
the author he always quoted, ‘ given an ardour to virtue, and 
confidence to truth.’ His story is worth all the wine he drank ; 
and as for any other expense, he saved it all in the coals and 
the candles. If I follow liis advice, 1 shall be the better man ; 
and for once I have found out it is not exactly true, ‘ that advice , 


THE GAMESTER. 


97 


when asked is seldom well received ; and when it is not asked, 
it is decidedly impertinent.’ ” 

Thus Robert continued moralising and tacking together “ wise 
saws and modern instances,” until he remembered that four days 
had passed, and that he had never visited Margaret Anson, the 
prettiest girl in the village, and one, to say the truth, with whom 
he fancied himself very much in love. Until the old gentleman 
called, he had never missed a day without blockading the high 
street, or occasionally stopping close to the little garden-gate 
which led to the neat cottage in which was domiciled his only 
hope. 

The Ansons were of good birth, and could trace back, by the 
means of old books, and now and then a straggling warrior, a 
clear descent, — clear at least to them, — from the Conqueror ; 
and throughout the many ramifications of that old tree of gene- 
alogy in all its shoots and branches, it may be questioned if it 
ever shot out a leaf so beautifully formed, so exquisitely fa- 
shioned, as Margaret. She was tall, or rather above Hhe middle 
stature of women ; she had large dark blue eyes, with dark 
brown hair — nay, almost a black, which gave her countenance a 
light of fire when -she blazed up, as she sometimes did, that 
could not fail to produce a most vivid sensation. But, alas ! how 
very often do we see in human life the picture of Margaret ! 
How often do we see the gayest dressed man — the dandy co- 
vered with chains and rings, bedizened with worked waistcoats 
and satin, — the one whose pocket and whose brain is the most 
shallow ! Many may have seen, when shawl after shawl in all 
their splendour have been unrolled, — when silk wrapper after 
silk wrapper has been unwound, the dead, cold, disgusting corpse 
of a Tartar; and may know that, in spite of the gold which sur- 
rounds its surface, how bitter is the pill concealed beneath ? 

Such was Margaret, — a splendid casket containing a coal. 
She had the fairest form and loveliest face that man ever dared 
to dote upon ; but she was idle, selfish, proud, morose. Mar- 
garet knew no pleasure but in society ; to be condemned to her 
own resources was a curse she avoided by sleep. She was one 
of those mealy women, who, in spite of clear skins and vivid 
eyes, are strangers to the genial warmth of love, and never feel 
its influence saving when it gratifies their vanity. 

Robert did not know her then, but he has since known her 
better: bitterly has he repented the re-continuation of his visits 
after the departure of the old man. He loved, — at least he 
thought so : he could never bring himself to any useful occupa- 

VOL. I. 9 


98 


WALSINGHAM, 


lion ; and he dissembled when he appeared to read and study in 
the society of the old gentleman ; — wherever he fixed his eyes, 
there were Margaret’s ; and although he w’^as blind as regarded 
her beauty, yet he was not blind to the situation in which he 
stood : he felt himself tolerated rather than encouraged ; when 
no other man could be found to dawdle out the hours, Douglass 
was considered as a convenient friend, whose poverty would 
starve love, and who would never venture to offer a hand which 
held not a heavy purse ; — in short, he was considered much in 
the light that the Author of “ The Life of a Sailor” has ventured 
to pourtray midshipmen in 1809, — “ Kind of dogs to fetch and 
carry.” He walked in and out of the house like a tame rabbit, 
and was believed as timid and as innocent as Joseph ; but his 
timidity arose from love, — he was miserable when absent from 
her. He did not dare to venture an offer, because he saw that 
whenever a popinjay with long spurs and died moustache made 
his appearance, he was decoyed by the old mother, whilst Mar- 
garet’s eyes were turned as a breaching battery against the out- 
works of the soldier’s heart. Robert has since believed that 
these men saw through the frail covering of Margaret ; for al- 
though many flirted, not one offered. They say hunger can 
tame a lion, and also, that if you tread on a worm it will turn. 
Oh, how long — how many months did Robert hunger after 
Margaret ! He watched her steps with rapture ; day after day 
he visited the cottage — he watched for some favourable symp- 
tom, he looked for some responding glances, he listened for 
some unexpected sigh. He might have watched, and looked, 
and listened until Doomsday, — Margaret’s heart was occupied 
solely by itself; and she regarded him more as a useful appen- 
dage than dreamt of him as a lover. Douglass had often met 
with rebukes and rebuffs in the unguarded hints of one or. two 
of the Ansons ; but Margaret had been either too kind or too 
sleepy to give vent to her feelings. Upon the subject of the 
old man, he had however some few difficulties to overcome. 
Some of his very best friends took the trouble to circulate that 
the account Robert gave of his own family was all false ; that 
the strange man who had excited such attention in the village 
was his father, who had just met with some reverses in his bu- 
siness, being by trade a kind of omnium gatherum trader, and 
had visited his son in the hopes of getting some little assistance. 
The charge was supported more upon circumstantial than posi- 
tive evidence ; but your old tattlers and retailers of scandal or 
insults prefer the former to the latter ; — it gives such scope to 


THE GAMESTER. 


99 


the imagination, it supplies a better field for the war of words, 
and it gives a value to a whisper, which otherwise might have 
“died unheard away.” 

“ If it had been a respectable friend,” quoth one, “ he would 
have trotted him to the ottage, and saved himself and his red- 
armed servant from the expense and trouble of a dinner.” 

“ Ay,” replied a second ; “ and he would not have moped all 
day in his narrow cell like a monk at his confession, had he not 
been ashamed of his father, and willing to avoid interrogation.” 

So that whilst Douglass was cherishing an old friend of his 
father’s — whilst he was making an old and infirm man enjoy 
some of the blessings of this life, he was incurring all the malice, 
all the venom of a female community. 

The attorney of the village, about as great a rogue as that 
honourable society can boast, only shook his head and observed, 
“ Poor fellow ! it is not his fault if his father is a hawk-er of 
rags about the town ; no man is responsible for the birth of his 
sire.” The parson, who was an honest, excellent person, asked 
what it could signify to others if Mr. Douglass chose to feed 
the decrepit, or extend his charity to the infirm. But amongst 
the women he lost considerable ground, — firstly, for having done 
a good action in admitting the stranger to his pew, which was 
called vanity ; and secondly, for having forced himself into their 
society under false colours. 

Robert could not but observe this ; the alteration in the nods 
of the ladies was evident; he was never asked to join the 
attorney and the doctor at whist, nor was he ever favoured after 
church with the friendly bow of acquaintance ; the fact is, he 
was nearly sent to Coventry, and by being still admitted to the 
Ansons, nearly bred a division in that once peaceful neighbour- 
hood. 

One day in spring, for the winter had passed and he had been 
neglected, when he was walking by the side of Margaret, and 
making all manner of pretty speeches, she suddenly turned 
round, and looking him full in the face, said — “ Pray Robert,” 
(she always called hirn^ Robert,) “ who was that old man who 
visited you for four days in November last?” 

“ Why really, Margaret,” he answered, (observe the fami- 
liarity,) “ I do not know.” 

“ Nonsense !” retorted the girl : “ you ought to be ashamed 
to deny one whom you must know !” 

“That may all be very just as a remark,” he interrupted; 
“ but it is a fact that I can put my hand upon my heart and 


100 


WALSINGHAM, 


solemnly swear that I do not know his name, his calling, or his 
abode.” 

“ Well, Robert, I am sorry to hear you say so, as it must 
breed a little distrust between us : I cannot pay you so bad a 
compliment as to believe you would admit a stranger whom you 
never saw in your life into your house, or that you are quite 
such a fool as to think we believe it.” 

“I am sure, Margaret,” he replied, not a little hurt by the 
remark, “ that I have never since I had the pleasure of knowing 
you — and a great and real pleasure it has been — told you one 
word of untruth ; and I repeat again, that I never saw that man 
before or since his visit here ; that I do not know his name ; 
and that my servant, as inquisitive as most of your sex, failed 
also to arrive at this desirable knowledge ; — nay, if you distrust 
me, perhaps you will credit her.” 

“ Upon your honour and word,” said Margaret, looking right 
through him with those beautiful eyes of hers, “ is not that 
dirty old man your father!” 

Robert looked at her in cool disgust 'before he answered the 
question. “ Margaret,” he said, for his blood was up — “ Mar- 
garet, you believe me as false as yourself I” She started with 
astonishment. “Nay, hear me out,” he continued. “You 
hear me pledge the honour and word of a gentleman that I do 
not know this person ; and you then, having evidently stamped 
me as a liar in your own mind, ask me if he is not my father. 
Could I by any subterfuge, by any compromise of conscience, 
if that man were my father, say that 1 did not know either his 
name, his calling, or his abode?” 

“Every one in the village,” continued Margaret, “thinks him 
your father ; and they say that you are not the person you re- 
present yourself to be. It is the generally circulated report that 
has made me ask the question ; and although you pledge your 
word and your honour, which I am bound to believe, yet I say 
it again, that I never thought you such a noodle before.” 

“And can you,” he replied, “listen to all the rubbish 
which idle women think proper to talk ? Rely upon this, Mar- 
garet,” he said as he took her hand, “ that I never have told you 
a falsehood, and that all I say or do when by your side is guided 
by sncerity and truth.” Margaret looked up, and Robert felt 
his heart bumping about like a parched pea upon a drumhead. 

It has been remarked before now, that the greater the excite- 
ment, the greater is the reaction ; and those are trivial obser- 
vers of life who fail in seeing that a woman’s heart becomes 


THE GAMESTER. 


101 


the softest immediately after she has steeled it in obduracy. 
Hence women who resolve not to accept a man wind them- 
selves up to the refusal, and the next second burst into tears. 
This is a natural reaction, and not hypocrisy, as has been 
averred. 

There was a kind of melting softness in Margaret’s eyes : 
she looked at Douglass as niuch as to compassionate him for 
the virulence of the slander he had undergone, and he felt that 
now was the time to make the most rapid advances. He had 
for the last six months taken every opportunity of admiring her 
beauty ; he had painted her as the perfection of a woman, al- 
though he was not blind to her occasional coolness. This, lover- 
like, he twisted into a trial of his affection, and never once 
thought it could arise from a chilliness of heart or an utter want 
of passion. The enemy — that is, her natural apathy — was now 
off his guard ; she seemed warmed, perhaps by his refutation of 
the report, and being conscious — for she had a little of that com- 
mon commodity — that she had insulted him, she felt inclined to 
soften the asperities and to acknowledge the reaction. “ A faint 
heart,” he said to himself, “ never won a fair lady : now is the 
time ; this is the tide which taken in the flood leads on to 
glory ; here’s a chance, here’s an opening, and by — — I’ll try 1” 
At this moment he quite forgot how unlikely it was that a girl 
of eighteen, with a beauty rarely equalled, and never surpassed, 
would relinquish all worldly ambition and sink down as the 
quiet wife of Robert Douglass, he being then in possession of 
one hundred and fifty pounds a year. Love is blind. 

He held Margaret’s hand, and returned the gaze of those 
beautiful blue eyes ; — he thought he never saw her look so 
pretty as in that plain straw bonnet with the pink riband : he 
held her hand, and throwing all his soul into his eyes, began to 
break ground. “ Margaret,” — he said, and there he came to a 
full halt. She looked at him as much as to say, “ Go on.” 
Robert gently squeezed her hand — he felt a kind of convulsive* 
return. “ Margaret,” — he began again. — 

“ Robert, — she said. 

“ Margaret, can you listen to me ?” 

. “ To be sure I can : Robert, do you think I am deaf?” 

Robert felt as if the old enemy was coming back to her pro- 
tection. 

“ Margaret,” (the third time is always the strongest,) he be- 
gan again, “ I told you before that 1 never mentioned one word 
to you which was not strictly true; and now I tell you another 

9 


102 


WALSINGHAM, 


truth I have longed many times to divulge. Look at this dear 
little hand in mine, Margaret.” She looked upon it as if it had 
been a stone. “ Do you see how well formed mine is to hold 
and to protect it?” 

“ Yes,” said she. 

Robert startled and continued ; “ Then accept mine as the 
protector of yours. Oh, make me really happy I Whatever I 
have is yours. Say, say you love me, — say you accept me as 
your husband.” She looked at him for some lime : they say, 
if a woman considers, she is lost. Robert trembled with anxie- 
ty ; he fell his limbs loiter beneath their weight ; he watched 
every gknce — the murder was out, he had spoken, and now his 
doom was about to be completed. He was afraid the poor girl 
would have fainted ; he was ready to catch the falling angel in 
his arms ; he was in the horror of suspense, when she turned 
short round upon her Ireel, burst out a-laughing, and ran home, 
leaving Robert like a statue fixed to the ground, and looking at 
the flying figure of the nymph. 

It would not be a very pleasant amusement to rummage recol- 
lection for the bitter feeling of disappointment, wounded pride, 
or crushed hope, wliich overcame him ; but such was his very 
unusual manner at dinner, that even Mary was struck into such 
a heap, that she thought him, what he certainly was for the mo- 
ment, mad. A note, however, from the cottage, begging him 
to spend the evening there, reanimated him ; although he might 
have seen that the invitation placed his tamed-rabbit visits rather 
out of the question for the future. 

Mrs. Anson was a kind woman, and knew how to feel for 
others, for she had suffered herself when her husband died ; — 
she knew by experience how hard it is to part with one we 
Jove ; and she could likewise imagine that a man might feel a 
rebuke of love, and feel it deeply. Margaret had told the whole 
story just as unconcerned as if Robert had offered her an unripe 
pear and she had refused it ; she had entered into all the parti- 
culars without the slightest emotion, and not knowing the power 
of feeling, she could not credit that she had inflicted pain upon 
another. Robert accepted this invitation, for hope seemed con- 
cealed in Pandora’s box ; he thought all the evil was out, and 
that her mother might have altered the determination of the 
daughter. Margaret met him at the door with her usual wel- 
come : she asked him if he remained long in the field after she 
left him ; and if he had not been blinded by her beauty, he might 
have known her for the heartless, worthless creature he after- 


THE GAMESTER. 


103 


wards found her. Mrs. Anson took him aside, and in the kindest 
manner offered a palliative for her daughter’s behaviour : she 
said, that for herself and her daughter she could answer, by 
saying that Margaret had never observed any particular altera- 
tion on Robert’s part ; and that the frequent intimacy for such 
a length of time without any declaration, was a sufficient proof 
to them that he had no serious intentions : she then, as kindly 
as woman can speak about insuperable objections, mentioned 
his fortune, and her knowledge that he had no expectation for 
the future ; and, after a vast number of compliments to himself, 
declared that Margaret still highly valued his friendship, although 
she hoped he would never mention the subject of love any more. 
Once or twice a lurking hint about the old gentleman convinced 
Robert that she had been infected by the surrounding scandal, 
and that although she spoke in honeyed accents, yet that she 
believed him to be very little better than a common impostor. 

“ My dear Robert,” she said, as she laid her hand upon his 
shoulder in the most friendly manner possible, “ you must know 
that a girl of Margaret’s beauty naturally looks a little above the 
humdrum life of a village like this. It is true we see very 
little company ; but next year I intend to take my children to 
town : — it is a duty I owe her, who certainly is very far above 
the common herd of womankind, to give her a chance of suc- 
cess in life ; and I know I am speaking to a reasonable person, 
who, although a little smitten by charms irresistible, yet has 
control enough over himself to be absent for four days, when he 
was merely engaged by an elderly gentleman^'*'* (she laid a par- 
ticular emphasis on that word,) “ to whom he was a perfect 
stranger, and, I am given to understand, remains so now.” 

“ 1 understand you perfectly, Mrs. Anson,” replied Robert, 
“ 1 assure you ; and kind as has been your manner in thus 
giving me to understand that I have no prospect of success 
hereafter, yet I cannot help lamenting that you cling to some 
sinister idea relative to that old man, who was a friend of my 
father’s, and to whom I extended the little civility I had to offer.” 

“ Oh, then you did know him ?” she hastily replied. 

“ No, indeed I did not,” said Robert ; “ and if at this moment 
I were to be hung at the gallows, and the naming of that man’s 
name would save me, I should be hung to a certainty.” She 
turned away with an incredulous sneer, and Robert saw his 
sentence of exclusion written legibly enough on the countenance 
of his dear friend Mrs. Anson. 

It happened about four months afterwards, that one or two 


104 


WALSINGHAM- 


young men dropped in to Mrs. Anson’s, and Robert was one of 
the parly. After that once national, and now doubly national 
beverage, since it is picked from our own hedges — tea, a dance 
was proposed, and Robert stood up opposite to Margaret in a 
state of utter despondency. He thought it was for the last lime 
that he should touch her hand ; and although he did not feel any 
particular angry feeling against her or her mother, yet he felt 
mortified that he was so long discredited : it was evident that 
the old ragman was believed to be his sire, and that from his 
situation in life he was ashamed of his parent. In the course 
of a man’s life, he must face many miseries, and be occasionally 
supremely unfortunate ; but it is a strange fact, that no calamity 
ever overtakes us without our being forwarned that something is 
about to occur. A man still exists who once stumbled into law, 
and although he felt his case was sure, if truth and justice could 
avail, yet before he went into court he remarked to the attorney, 
“ It is no use, I feel I am to lose it and he did. A month 
previously to this, and the same trial, when the morning came 
on which that case was to be heard, he said, “ I will lay thou- 
sands that I am not beat this day the trial was postponed, and 
both warnings proved correct. Let not the hasty reader brand 
this as a boyish superstition ; our greatest heroes have been 
forewarned of their fate, and have been shot the same evening. 
Nelson had a tinge of this at Trafalgar, and Sir Peter Parker 
openly expressed it the night of his death. 

They had danced one quadrille, and Robert had lugged his 
legs after him something like a sweep does his broom, when he 
felt a lightness of heart for which he could not account. Al- 
though in the titters of the girls and the looks of the m.en he 
could see that he was the object of distrust and remark, yet 
suddenly he felt an elasticity of mind which a Londoner feels 
when hastily removed to Paris. He laughed and flirted, and, in 
spite of all untoward events, he never felt happier in his life. 
About eleven o’clock the dance was done, the tray brought, and 
silence succeeded the noise of youth and merriment. It was 
during that pause, that the servant entered, and said that Mr. 
Douglass was wanted immediately at home, — that a gentleman 
had arrived from London in great haste and begged that Mr. 
Douglass would see him directly. 

To the inquiries, Robert only learned that the stranger was a 
middle-aged man, that he came down post, and had not arrived 
more than five minutes. ^ In a country village, a post-chaise is 
an object of scrutiny by day ; but when it comes in the shape 


THE GAMESTER. 


105 


of a despatch by night, every longue is sure to be employed in 
giving forth opinions upon the object. The carriage and horses 
had gone to the Elephant and Dormouse, and curiosity was 
strongly excited. Robert advanced to shake hands for the last 
time, as he thought, with Mrs. Anson. He remarked a con- 
siderable change in her manner ; she seemed softened down a 
little, and hoped Robert would call to-morrow. Even Margaret 
was kind,,and in the expression that she hoped nothing serious 
had occurred, betrayed a momentary feeling for his interest, and, 
he thought, welfare in life. 


106 


WALSINGHAM, 


CHAPTER XL 


Robert’s house was not more than five hundred yards from 
the cottage, and he took about two hops, skips, and jumps to 
arrive at the door. Here he found a short pragmatical-looking 
man in full possession of the fire, rubbing his hands and looking 
quite at home. On Robert’s entrance he rose, and having asked 
him if he was Mr. Robert Douglass, the son of John Douglass, 
deceased, he gave him a very smiling look, and told him that he 
had come post to see him, having business of great importance 
to transact. 

“ In the first place, sir,” he said to Robert, “ it is my duty 
to ask you some few questions, which I trust you will do me 
the favour to answer.” Douglass nodded assent, and he pro- 
ceeded. “ Pray, sir, were you ever acquainted with one Mr. 
Benjamin Houghton ?” 

“ Never, sir,” replied Douglass ; “ I have never had the 
honour of knowing any such person, I assure you.” And Robert 
began to look round his room to see that none of his furniture had 
walked. 

“ I think, sir, replied the little quiz, “ you must be labouring 
under some mistake, for I am sure / have made none. Is not 
this your name, the name and number of your street, the village 
in which you reside, the name of your father and your family ?” 

Douglass looked at the memorandum, which was made in a 
pocket-book, and then regarding his visiter full in the face, (he 
could have pocketed him had it been requisite,) he answered, 
“ Yes, sir, most certainly, this can be meant for no other than 
myself.” 

“ If, sir,” continued the stranger, “ you have any letter di- 
rected to you which may have come by the post, will you be 
kind enough to show me the direction ?” 

“ To be sure I will,” replied Robert, opening his desk and 
handing out one, which the little gentleman ran his eye over, 
and returned to him, saying, “ Are you quite sure, sir, you do 
not know any person of the name of Benjamin Houghton?” 

“ I am just as certain, sir, as that I have the honour of seeing 


THE GAMESTER. 


107 


you before me,” replied' Douglass. “ To the best of my know- 
ledge and belief, I only have had one person besides yourself 
inside these doors with whose name I waig not acquainted ; and 
he was an old gentleman to whom I offered some civility.” 

“ Is it long, sir, since he left you ?” continued the stranger. 

“ It may be now about three or four months,” was replied. 

“ Will you describe him, if you please ? for I fancy this is 
the same gentleman,” resumed the stranger. 

Robert did so in no very good humour ; for he by no means 
relished this kind of examination, and certainly was not in the 
vein to be over and above civil to this stranger, for he put the 
questions to him as a matter of right, which Robert did not 
comprehend. 

“ I am satisfied,” replied the stranger, “ that we have made 
no mistake. And now, Sir, I shall, after apologising for what 
may seejn a liberty, convey to you a piece of intelligence which 
I hope may convince you that my questions were absolutely 
necessary. I am, sir, the solicitor of the late Mr. Benjamin 
Houghton ; and I have no doubt, from his general eccentric 
manner, that he for some purpose, — perhaps the unfortunate 
death of his son, who committed suicide in Paris, — concealed 
his name. He has indeed for some few years been a kind of 
wandering hermit — ” • 

“ He used to call himself a pilgrim,” Robert interrupted. 

“ You are right, sir, and he seldom remained long in one 
place.” Here the solicitor paused. 

“ He has been the cause of great anxiety to me,” replied 
Robert ; “ for, from the negligence of his dress, his peculiarity 
as to carrying his own portmanteau, and the cautious manner, 
when he related the whole circumstance of his son’s connexion 
with Miss Louisa Stanhope, of concealing his name, I have 
been unable to contradict the malicious scandal which idle 
i women have circulated very much to my injury ; they have, in 
the plenitude of their goodness, called him a hawking pedler, 
and dubbed the good old soul as my father. He appeared to me 
to be a gentleman by birth and manner, although satlly soured 
by the world.” 

} “ I wish he had been my father,” replied the solicitor ; “ and 

* I have no doubt that you will have no cause to regret your civi- 
' lity and your attention to him. But to the point: he is dead — ” 

“ I am truly sorry to hear it,” replied Robert ; “ for I grew 
much attached to him, and the contentment he seemed to enjoy 
in my society made me anxious to see him again.” 


108 


WALSINGHAM, 


“ Of course, sir, you are already prepared to hear that he has 
left you some money.” 

“ Some trifling mark of his esteem, I suppose,” said Dou- 
glass, “ and for which I confess myself thankful, however little 
it may be. You see here, sir, ail my worldly goods ; and you 
will do me the favour of remaining here to-night, so I shall take 
the liberty of ordering my spare bed to be ready.” He then 
rang the bell ; and Mary, who had been listening at the door 
and caught the sound of money left — dead old gentleman, &c, 
appeared instantly to attend the summons. 

“ Of this money,” Robert said, “ we can talk to-morrow, for 
I suppose you are rather tired.” 

“You certainly, Mr. Douglass, take things as coolly as any 
philosopher. You are aware, I suppose, that Mr. Houghton 
died very rich indeed ?” 

“I am in remembrance of his having spoken once or twice of 
his fortune,” replied Douglass, “ and that he would willingly 
give every farthing to restore his son to life ; but as to the 
amount, I can form no estimate whatever, — from his dress he 
\vas no Croesus.” 

“It was his dress and abstemious manner of life which made 
him the rich man he was,” continued the solicitor : “ his pro- 
perty has wonderfully increased during its nursing.” 

“ I hope he has provided for Louisa,” remarked Robert ; 
“ for although I have never seen her, yet from his account she 
must have suffered much from the behaviour of his son. He 
often mentioned his having done all that fortune could do to re- 
store her to her proper position.” 

He has not neglected her ; for after some few trifling lega- 
cies, one of which is to myself,” said the stranger, “ he has left 
his fortune between Louisa and yourself ^ 

“ Sir ?” said Robert. 

“You will find yourself by these presents,” said the little 
man, smiling, “ in possession of ^70,000.” 

“ Damnation !” said Robert ; and he jumped up and kissed 
the attorney. He thought he was mad, and got up in the cor- 
ner ; but Robert caught him by the coat : “ Sit down,” said he, 
— “ out with it all;” and then looking him full in the face, said, 
“ Are you quite certain you are not humbugging me?” 

“ Humbugging you, sir !” replied the solicitor, returning his 
look. “ I tell you, sir, I am his solicitor, his executor, his old- 
est friend, and now come down to do the last act honourably, — 
to put you into quiet possession, to take you to town to-mor- 
row, and — ” 


THE GAMESTER. 


109 


^ To give me your advice, my friend,” interrupted Robert, — 
“ to check my first lavish expenditure ; to teach me not to rush 
into extremes, — in short, to be my solicitor, my friend.'^'* 

“I’m sure I shall be most happy ; and as I have no reason to 
disguise my name—for I defy the devil himself, although I am 
an attorney, — I introduce myself to you as Mr. Verity, of the 
firm of Verity, Honor, and Co., Argyle Street.” 

“Now, Mr. Verity, I’ll have some supper,’^ said Robert; 
“ and you and I will break through all steady habits and crack 
a bottle. Seventy thousand pounds and Margaret Anson 1” 

“No, sir; Louisa Stanhope.” 

“ Yes, I forgot. — Mary, have you any meat in the house?” 
said Robert, almost pulling the bell down. 

“ No,” replied the servant; “ I ate the last of the cold steak 
yon left at dinner.” 

“ Cold steak !” said Robert, laughing: “go and buy me the 
whole of Cleaver’s shop, and dress it for supper.” 

“ Nay, nay,” interrupted Verity ; “ here I begin my advice 
and open my account. Mary, run to the inn and desire them 
to send a plate of ham and a cold fowl.” 

“ Money, sir, if you please,” said Mary, curtseying and look- 
ing at Robert. 

“I have not enough about me to jingle upon a tombstone,” 
replied Douglass : “ tell them I’ll pay them to-morrow.” 

“ No, no,” said Verity : “ I thought you might want some 
supplies, so I brought you down fifty pounds. Here, Mary, my 
child, take this sovereign and pay for it : and be back as soon as 
possible, for it grows late, and I must return to town early to- 
morrow.” 

“ Order four horses to be here with this gentleman’s carriage 
at ten precisely,” said Robert. “ I vow I will go out of this 
scandalous parish with a flourish. Now, Mr. Verity, it is no 
use your holding up your hands like a rope-dancer trying to 
keep his balance ; for if you knew how I have been insulted, 
abused, reviled, rejected, you would say it was innocent revenge, 
which will cost my enemies no money and me no concern.” 

“ On this point as you like, then, Mr. Dogglass ; but I sup- 
pose you intend to return and look after your furniture, and to 
dispose of the lease of your house? Take care, with all your 
luck, you don’t fall into a lawsuit,~~that’s the worst suit any 
man can wear.” 

“ Well, if I do, Mr. Verity, I shall fall into honourable hands, 
for I must employ you,” replied Douglass. 

VOL. I. 10 


110 


WALbINGHAM, 


“ The less chance you will have of gaining the day then,” 
continued the solicitor. “ If you want to defend an action at 
common law, go to Furnival’s Inn, and hunt up the readiest 
rogue of the batch. But I will take care of you in this respect, 
at least concerning your house.” 

“Here’s the supper,” said Douglass; “and here’s Mary 
laughing and chuckling like a young magpie. Come, spread it 
out, my lass ; — here, take the keys and rummage the cellar, 
— don’t be shy, hand up all you can find — I fancy there is not 
enough to make a lady drunk.— And now, Mr. Verity, for your 
account of the last moments of Mr. Benjamin Houghton. You 
know, of course, that I only saw him for four days in my life, 
and that under peculiar circumstances ; so that if I do appear 
j^father in high spirits at my good fortune, I am sure you will do 
me the credit to absolve me from all hypocrisy. If 1 were to 
begin and cry and sigh, to rend my heart and tear my garments, 
— or, as was done by an ancient people, root out my hair, — 
why, you would believe me to be a snivelling fellow in whom 
no confidence could be placed. I liked old Benjamin, both 
himself and his upper garment of the same name; he might 
have lived longer, and I should not have repined, — he might 
have returned to my humble dwelling and been welcomed : but 
since it has pleased God to take him, and pleased him to leave 
me some of his money, why I am sorry he is gone if he wish- 
ed to live, but glad as to the result. And so I make a clean 
confession to my legal adviser.” 

“ Spoken out boldly, like a conscientious evidence which it 
is no use cross-examining,” replied Verity: “I can enter into 
your feelings. The poor old gentleman, after he left you in 
November last, returned to town and made a new will. He re- 
mained only long enough for the document to be prepared and 
signed : he put it into my hands and said, ‘ I have always re- 
spected you for your candour and your honesty : I leave this 
with you, — no soul breathing is aware of its contents but your- 
self ; it will therefore rest with you to act up to the spirit of the 
dead. Now, good-b’ye ! you will never see me again, for I 
feel I have not long to live : however, if I do send for you, 
mind and be active in obeying the summons.” He left me 
almost directly, and took a house in Cheltenham, where he was 
remarked, as he appears to have been in this village, more from 
his disregard to dress than for the charity he bestowed with 
liberal hands — although with servants he was parsimonious in 
the extreme ; his food was simple, and in those niggardly habits 


THE GAMESTER. 


Ill 


which he had practised in his youth, he very nearly starved his 
own nurse. Last Thursday I received a two penny-post note 
from him, dated Carmarthen Street, and desiring me to come 
instantly. I obeyed, and found my old client upon a bed from 
which I saw at once that he never would move without the 
undertaker’s men. The apothecary, who was of no practice, 
and who was just clever enough to perceive that his patient was 
about to leave him, recommended calling in a physician ; but 
Mr. Houghton strenuously objected to throwing away money 
upon so bad a subject as himself. I arrived in the middle of 
the argument ; I instantly despatched a boy for Dr. Baillie, who 
fortunately was at home. Directly he visited the patient, he 
gave him a general release, as he saw he could not arrest the 
progress of the case ; — in fact, it was evident that an action had 
been declared against him, and he had entered an appearance.” 

“Not by attorney, Mr. Verity?” 

“ No, thank God ! not just yet. However, he rallied a little, 
and sending every one out of the room but myself, he recapitu- 
lated the outline of Louisa’s fall owing to his son, and then gave 
a brief picture of your open pew and doors. He called upon 
me to be your guide as I had been his ; and then giving me a 
hint that my fee would have been quite enough for the doctor, 
he directed me to have no fuss and nonsense about parading his 
carcass for a field-day, but to pop it into a long wooden case, 
and send it down by the van to. Longdale House, to be buried 
under a small mound which is in an open spot in the wood, not 
far from a small spring of water. I have conformed with all 
his wishes excepting the last, and I will consult you upon it to- 
morrow in our way to town. When he had done, he asked for 
some wine and water. We were obliged to send out for it, for 
he had not a drop in the house. Before it came he was much 
worse, and could not drink, I therefore wetted a rag, and squeez- 
ed it into his mouth, and continued this, as it appeared to give 
him some relief, until two in the morning, when the rattle of 
death announced the delivery of judgment. Before, however, 
the light was extinguished for ever, he sat upright in his bed, 
and with a kind of lightning before death, he glanced his eyes 
round the room, and saying, ‘ Where is Harry ? — where is my 
son, my poor forgiven son !’ he fell back and died. It was to 
me, who make money, and who spend it rather freely, a wonder 
that a man of his property could have contented himself with 
such a lodging — excepting that no one would have suspected him 
of being the man he was ; and thus he passed on without ob- 


112 


WALSINGHAM, 


servation until his last moments ; the apoihecary believing him 
to be almost a pauper; — and the good old woman who nursed 
him was much of the same opinion ; he had hired her at ten 
shillings the month, and had paid a fortnight in advance. I be- 
lieve the old female thought I wanted a nurse, when I gave her 
a ten-pound note for the trouble she had had, and the kind feel- 
ing she had manifested. Now, sir, as the time draws on, and 
we have sufficient to do for to-morrow, here is to your health 
and wealth ; may you spend it honourably, and go down to 
your grave at a good old age, respected by the poor of Long- 
dale House, which estate, besides the 70,000/. is yours, and left 
free of all incumbrances, or of settlements. He once thought 
of making you take his name ; but he considered that some of 
the slander which had been affixed to his son might by mistake 
be given to you, and thus hurt your prosperity. So now, sir, 
having broken the ice of our acquaintance, I shall betake my- 
self to bed, and hope that to-morrow before ten we shall be 
quite ready to start for London.” 

“ Good night, Mr. Verity,” said Robert; “you have been 
the only harbinger of good news I have ever had through my 
unfortunate existence. May you sleep soundly, having done 
your duty conscientiously and well. I shall not trouble the poppy 
god much, I feel, but I will not detain you.” And away went 
Verity, preceded by Mary, who had dressed herself out in her 
best, in order to show her participation in her master’s good 
fortune. 

Now came reflection ; and as Douglass stretched himself out 
upon the bed which for two years had borne his weight, he 
began to sum up his day’s doings, as the old gentleman told 
him a famous English judge always did. He had never thought 
of Margaret, excepting in that sudden ebullition when in reality 
he thought of sharing his fortune with her. She had refused 
him as a pauper, she had discredited him, she had even laugh- 
ed at him : now, he had the means of revenge ; but that was a 
mean cowardly spirit, and he did not entertain it a moment. 
But very different did he feel from being the humble man he 
had been. Margaret’s age, he found, was too near his own — 
he had always considered twelve years as necessary ; he knew 
by experience that a parity of age never conduces to happiness 
he knew well the difference between a man and a woman at 
forty-five ; — still, he liked the Ansons, and he began to harbour 
a slight affection for Julia, who was then only sixteen, and who 
promised to be as fine a woman as her sister, without being so 


THE GAMESTER. 


113 


much spoiled or so selfish. Then he wandered away to Paris 
and to Rome ; and after a night through, in which he dozed but 
never slept, he was aroused by Mary at seven o’clock, and went 
through, for the last time for many years, the drudgery of being 
his own servant. He was down, dressed and ready, by eight 
o’clock. He presented Mary with ten pounds, by way of be- 
ginning ; he gave instructions as to the house, and look good 
care to let his little taltiing maid know his good fortune ; then 
telling her that if when Mr. Verity was ready for breakfast he 
had not returned, she would find him somewhere about the 
Ansons’ gate. 

It happened that as he approached the gate he met a gang of 
strolling gipsies ; and being accosted by a rather pretty girl of 
the tribe, who was solicitous to tell his fortune, he stopped close 
to the cottage, and giving a shilling to have his palm crossed 
with the silver, the little black-eyed girl thus enacted prophet, 
after first asking him if he gave it with a good will and gene- 
rous heart : “ Ah, sir,” she began, “ many’s the long mile you 
have travelled, and many’s the more you have got to go ; — it is 
not a journey you are going to take directly that I count, but 
miles and miles away, away. You have had many crosses and 
mishaps, but now you are rich and happy ; but the day will 
come when you will remember the poor gipsy girl, when you 
will not be so wealthy as you shall be this day : it’s fortune 
that will ruin you. There’s many a fair one will seek to win 
you ; but the one you once loved, you will never marry ; and 
though she is not far ofT, yet your bride is nearer : it’s all as 
fixed as fate — the girl you would have married yesterday this 
day is not for you.” She finished, and walked on towards the 
village, leaving Douglass most superstitiously pondering over 
the truth of this guess-girl, when, giving a deep sigh and turn- 
ing round, he saw Julia standing by the gate watching him. 
Rumours of wealth had gone before him, and as he advanced 
to shake her little hand, Margaret asked him to come in and 
breakfast. He pleaded the presence of his solicitor, and 
scarcely heeded the congratulations of Mrs. Anson, whose 
head was now exhibited, and who seconded the invitation; but 
at that moment he saw Mary, and waving his hand as he offer- 
ed to carry any parcel to town for them, he turned round, and 
was soon at home. 

Robert began to think the gipsy was right on every point, 
for on many he knew her to be so. To be sure, he knew that 
every man who was not tied by the leg either to a counter or a 

10 * 


114 


WALSINGHAM, 


shop-board must travel a good deal ; and as for love, what would 
a gipsy girl’s prophecy be without a spice of that? — every man 
must fall in love, or fancy himself to be so. In short, he turned 
it all over in his mind, and came to this conclusion : that if he 
was to be ruined after all, and know poverty and be acquainted 
with the poor, he might as well have some fun for his money ; 
and as to his yesterday’s love, he had already eased himself of 
that, or all the solicitors in the world would never have kept 
him from Margaret. 


THE GAMESTER. 


115 


CHAPTER XII. 


At ten o’clock Mr. Verity and Douglass left the residence of 
the latter and proceeded to London. Robert felt a degree of 
pleasure unknown to him before when he observed several of 
his old maiden friends watching his departure ) he waved a 
most patronising bow, and he imagined how severely they must 
have regretted the trifling civility of opening a pew-door. - It 
was resolved during the journey that the old benefactor should 
be buried in a decent manner, without any fuss or parade, in 
the spot he had selected : they broke down his directions in re- 
gard to the van by making a hearse into that conveyance. They 
had little time to make arrangements, for it was agreed that Mr. 
Verity should accompany Robert, preceding the corpse, to put 
him in possession, and likewise to arrange all the preliminary 
necessaries. Douglass took care to have a regular vault made, 
and ordered a most splendid monument — one not unlike that 
celebrated mark of affection planned by the present king over 
the late queen of Prussia. 

In the mean time, the vanity of human Jiature began to em- 
bitter the moments of Robert’s life. When he first saw Long- 
dale, he saw a paradise. It was beautifully situated on a gentle 
rising ground ; the long, even shaved lawn finishing at the bank 
of a large lake of water ; beyond this was a thick wood, which 
flanked the eastern side of the house, protecting it from the cold 
winds of that quarter ; whilst on the left was one of the most 
splendid views in the county of Kent. The house was spacious, 
but too elegantly furnished : Robert was afraid to move his own 
chairs for fear of spoiling their splendour. Every room was in 
excellent preservation ; and the old housekeeper who welcomed 
him to this godsend declared that ever since Mr. Houghton had 
visited it, which was six weeks previous to this day, she had, 
in obedience to his orders, been busily employed in preparing 
the house for its new master. This estate comprised one thou* 
sand acres in a ring fence, and was advantageously farmed out, 
producing a very respectable income, — for at that time agricul- 
tural distress was not the cry of the whole nation. The fact was, 


116 


WALSINGHAM, 


the property had been so well managed between Mr. Verity and 
the housekeeper, that Robert thought he could not leave it in 
belter hands, more especially as he had been a witness to the 
honesty and the attention of both. He took good care to know 
that every requisite for a family was in the house : he visited 
the cellars, and saw the tenants at will therein ; they were 
closely packed, and had very dignified titles appended to their 
habitations. He received the congratulations of the people^ who 
lived near him ; but he was pleased — much pleased, when he 
heard that the family from which Harry Houghton had selected 
his wife had long since left the neighbourhood, as the very 
name of Longdale rang like the last curse of old Houghton in 
the ears of his dying daughter-in-law upon the good old father 
of that excellent family. 

The day of the funeral arrived, and the hearse made its dusty 
appearance. Robert saw the coffin of Benjamin Houghton 
placed in the vault ; he heard the service of the dead in solenan 
accents read over him, he threw some dust himself upon his 
grave, and he became the full and only possessor of the soil — 
for he who owned it was become a part of it. He gave some 
directions as to rendering the monument, when it should be 
finished, an object worthy to meet the eye ; and after sleeping 
that night at Longdale, accompanied Verity to town in order to 
settle his affairs before he began to put his schemes into opera- 
tion. His first wish was to see Louisa Stanhope, now Louisa 
Walton. She attended at Verity’s, in order to sign the release 
with her husband, and Robert could not but admire the regula- 
rity of her beauty : she was now only twenty-five, and a finer 
woman could not be seen in the metropolis. When Robert was 
first introduced to her, she led him aside from the desk and the 
parchments, and said, “ Yon know my history, I am informed 
and the large tears filled her beautiful eyes. She was in deep 
mourning, and spoke in terms of the warmest gratitude of old 
Mr. Houghton, but she never once alluded to Harry. Robert 
could not help inquiring for Cavendish, and learned that he had 
lately been engaged in some swindling transaction, and had left 
the country, having twice or thrice solicited charity from the 
very being he had so often endeavoured to render a common 
prostitute on the town. That excellent creature relieved him ; 
for although fallen in the estimation of Virtue, and justly fallen, 
yet we cannot but admire the fortitude of one who still main- 
tained the dignity of her former station^ and who did not allow 


THE GAMESTER. 


117 


-the frowns of the world to render her heart callous to the call of 
mercy. 

Amongst other acquaintances that he made, Charles Stanhope 
was one. He was a soldier by profession, — not from choice, 
but necessity : his other brothers had engrossed all the interest 
the father held in church preferment, and he had been driven to 
the sword for an occupation and employment. Charles w^as one of 
those very few men we sometimes meet who regulate every idea 
by the strict standard of honour : he carried it beyond what was 
requisite ; for if we are told we are not to “ be righteous over- 
much” in religion, so we may say, “ Be not honourable over- 
much in society.” There are always one or two white lies which 
are absolutely necessary ; but Charles would not tell a white lie 
to please either his colonel or his king. He was one who had 
profited by example, and often said that he considered the whole 
career of Harry to have been influenced by the falsehood he told 
his father when he promised not to see his wife for two years, 
—it was God’s judgment for the untruth. To Charles Stanhope, 
who received a handsome legacy, Robert became much attached; 
and in order to let him see the rise of his fortune, Robert en- 
gaged him to visit him at his old abode in the village — to sit in 
the pew where the old gentlemen sat, to sleep in his bed, and 
to share some of the good things he was now enabled to offer 
from the unexpected liberality of Mr. Houghton. In the mean 
time he made various purchases, and sent down some of the 
good things of this life. Mary circulated the report that Mr. 
Douglass was about to return ; and the gossips of the village 
imagining from this circumstance that his good fortune had 
been overrated^ already began to terfn the fortune “ a trifling 
legacy.” 

At the cottage one of iho^e little scenes so common in life oc- 
curred the morning Robert left the village. Julia, who though 
so young that passion could not inspire a feeling, yet felt a com- 
fortable glow and an uncomfortable blush when she mentioned 
to the assembled family the whole predictions of the gipsy. 
Mrs. Anson checked her folly, and comforted Margaret, who 
only thought of uniting herself with a man of wealth, by the 
assurance that no gipsy tale could alter his love ; that if the 
roots were in the heart, none of the yellow tribe — not even the 
Bohemian sovereign — could drive it out of the head ; and know- 
ing the natural coldness of Margaret, she began to work upon 
her avarice more than upon her feelings. 

“ Nonsense, Julia, my dear !” said Mrs. Anson. “ Robert 


118 


WALSINOHAM, 


has already declared his passion for Margaret ; and now that he 
has a sufficiency, all obstacles will be removed — his first wish 
will be to throw himself and his money at Margaret’s feet, and 
I advise her to pick both up. You know, my dear Margaret, 
tliat discretion, not dislike, prompted your refusal.” 

“ I dare say he would do as well as another, mamma ; and I 
suppose we shall live in London. I really long to leave this 
wretched dull hole, and see something more of the world. Be- 
sides, you can all come and stay with us, excepting Julia, and 
she is too young to be out yet.” 

“ I have got the gipsy’s prophecy,” said the little Julia, blush- 
ing ; “ and I shall go to town, you may rely upon it, Margaret : 
you cannot be jealous of my beauty or influence.” 

“ A prophecy ?” interrupted Margaret : “ girls of sixteen had 
better think of their governess than of their future husbands. 
Why, you don’t think that he would marry you ?” 

“If he asks me,” replied the open-hearted Julia, “I shall 
have him ; for he is a kind man, and never yet said a harsh 
word to me. But I wonder if he has gone to town, and if he 
will return ?” 

“ They say that he has got 50,000/. from that old man who 
visited him three months since, and that he was not his father,” 
continued Margaret; “so that he has not been sailing, as Mr. 
Gammon the attorney said, under false colours — although he 
changed his very often when I taxed him with it. I really wish 
I had never run away when he made his declaration of love : 
but to think of marrying a man who had 150/. a year was too 
absurd, and to rust and rot in this miserable village was quite 
preposterous.” 

“ I should not wonder,” replied Julia, “ if your cool manner 
does not cool him. He offered himself when he had nothing 
but himself to offer, and you refused him : now, if )"ou accept 
him, it must be obvious even to a lover, that his money, and not 
the man, was the bait.” 

“ Suppose, Julia,” replied Margaret, “ you mind your own 
business. I tell you it is quite indifferent to me whom I marry; 
but now I am determined to have Robert, for I have no idea of 
younger sisters interfering in such concerns.” 

“Julia, my dear,” said Mrs. Anson, “go to Miss Boreum 
and practise your piano. I wonder how the word love ever got 
into your head !” 

“ Why, mamma, I had my fortune told by the gipsy : and she 
said she knew I was in love ; and she described Robert so well. 


THE GAMESTER. 


119 


that I think I shall take compassion upon him, since Margaret 
only likes his money. But I won’t quarrel with my pretty sis- 
ter about him ; and if he speaks to you first, you may have him, 
on conditions that 1 am to be one of the bridesmaids. So now 
we are agreed, give me a kiss, and I will go to my studies. I 
wonder when I shall have done with Miss Boreum and be out ; 
for although I like her as much as a girl can like her governess, 
yet I confess I should rejoice to be independent.” 

“ Do go, Julia !” said Mrs. Anson : “ how your tongue does 
run riot! — one would think the gipsy girl had told you you 
were to find a fortune, and that she had been a true prophet.” 

“ Oh, mamma, I remember what she said : I shall find a for- 
tune and a husband too.” 

Robert had bought a carriage, one handsome and convenient; 
and in it he placed Charles and himself, whilst in the rumble 
the servant, a personage of much pretension both in looks and 
accomplishments, occupied his seat. He had only a pair of 
horses, but the equipage was one which would have created a 
sensation in any village. 

“1 am now, Charles,” he said as they drove away from the 
hotel in London, “about to make you a confidant in my history. 
I shall have the pleasure to-night to introduce you to one of the 
handsomest women in England, with whom I candidly confess 
I was much in love. It is now scarcely a month ago, and the 
day previous to Mr. Verity’s information of my good fortune, 
that I made her a proposition of marriage ; and she not only re- 
fused me, but refused me coldly : she actually laughed at me, 
andv conveyed the ungracious negative with a want of feeling 
which shocked me,r — nay, it was an implied scorn. I left the 
village the day after Verity’s visit, having spent the evening with 
the family, and from the mother heard a confirmation of the sen- 
tence declared against me. It was near midnight when Verity 
arrived and I became an affluent man. I shall have no secrets 
from you ; and I tell you that, in spite of all my good fortune, 
the contempt with which 1 was treated by this beautiful statue 
has made me dread to meet her. I know that on our arrival we 
shall be asked to dinner there, and I want your advice as to the 
propriety of accepting it.” 

“ Do you intend,” asked Stanhope, “ to resume your inti- 
macy with the family, so as to leave them to suppose that you 
still harboured a love which her breath might send to sea ?” 

“ Most certainly not,” replied Robert : “ my intention in this 
little excursion is to show you how and where I was living, to 


120 


WALSINGHAM, 


make yoii sit in the fortunate pew, to bid farewell to all my 
neighbours, and to express to Mrs. Anson my warmest thanks 
for her former hospitality.” 

“ An honourable embassy, in which I shall be your secre- 
tary,” said Charles ; “ and then — ” 

“ Then my intention is to take a Continental tour with some 
such good fellow as yourself; or, if you feel inclined — for we 
have both seen France and Italy, — to steer across the Atlantic 
and visit Jonathan, I am your companion for as long as you can 
obtain leave of absence.” 

“ That would suit my inclination and my desires well,” re- 
plied Charles ; “ but you must not force me into extravagances 
or render me insignificant by your wealth.” 

“ I feel that to be impossible,” replied Douglass ; “ your ster- 
ling qualities are more valuable than my money ; but I promise 
to place rny expenditure at the ratio you yourself shall fix, and 
thus then we agree to visit Jonathan in his own state.” 

“ In one of them at any rate,” replied Stanhope. “ What 
place is this we are coming to ? — a. man that could live here 
must be one tired of the world, and ” 

“ Turn to the right, boy, at the Elephant and Dormouse, and 
stop at the first white house on the left-hand side. Come, drive 
us up sharply.” 

Smack went the whip ; the wheels whisked round with in- 
creased velocity ; out of every window pop came a head to see 
the carriage. Douglass sat back with becoming retirement as 
the vehicle quickly passed the Elephant, turned to the right, 
and stopped opposite the door. An hostler from the inn ran to 
offer fresh horses ; and as Robert was rather the belter in ap- 
pearance for a London tailor’s decorations, when he stepped 
from the carriage, the lout exclaimed: “ Why here’s he be 
again, and as bright as a new penny !” 

The carriage was sent to the inn, and Robert ushered Stan- 
hope into his little parlour. “ Here it was,” he said, “ that old 
Houghton told me his misfortunes : here’s the humble table 
which was spread to welcome him, and in this little cabin did 
he feel more comfort than he had known for years.” The Lon- 
don gentleman’s valet turned up his nose at the small habitation, 
and gave Mary a look of contempt, as much as to say, “Coun- 
try verniin !” 

Douglass was right in his conjecture. Before he had time to 
give directions to Mary as to dinner, a note, written in Marga- 
ret’s hand, was delivered to him. It forestalled him in every 


THE GAMESTER. 


121 


way, for it mentioned that they knew he had not ordered din- 
ner, and that a companion accompanied him. Both were in- 
vited, and both accepted. The note began “ My dear Robert,” 
and she was very truly his even to the end. 

Stanhope remarked the beginning and the end, and was about 
to make some objection to the acceptance, when Douglass told 
him he had always been called Robert, and had received dozens 
of notes in the same style. In the mean time the church bells 
began making the most infernal noise ; the tradesmen, whom 
Douglass had punctually paid, came to announce their grati- 
tude for-former custom, and to solicit a continuation of the same ; 
and when he walked out, he was surrounded by candidates for 
service and for charity. 

“ This is flattering, Robert, at any rate. You seem to have 
steered a steady course whilst you lived here ; and amongst the 
many who have bowed and congratulated you, not one has 
brought up one of those unpleasant reminiscences in the shape 
of a small account accidentally forgotten, and only presented as 
it might have escaped your memory.” 

“ Thank God,” he replied, “ it is with some pride that I can 
lay my hand to my heart and declare that I never owed a far- 
thing in my life. I had but little, and within that little I managed 
to live. But here is the cottage ; let us pay a visit before dinner: 
and I warn you, before you enter, to place a good barrier before 
your heart.” 

“ Never fear,” said Charles; “the captain of a walking regi- 
ment has too many boots to buy, to take a wife ; and besides, 
her eyes will be upon you; where the treasure is, there will 
the heart be also. By Jove ! it is a comfortable place though, 
and fancifully decorated.” 

“ Yes, and the inside has more beauties, and natural ones, 
than the exterior. Mrs. Anson, this is my friend Mr. Stanhope ; 
and we both intend ourselves the pleasure of dining here to- 
day.” 

Mrs. Anson bowed and was most happy. The door opened, 
and Margaret entered. A flush came over the face of Charles ; 
and as Douglass shook hands with her, and presented her to his 
friend as the flower of England, he thought he never saw Stan- 
hope look so confoundedly foolish in his life. He stammered 
and stuttered something about beauty and justice, and made such 
a jumble of a hotchpotch, that Robert ihougfit he should have 
laughed outright. Then Julia carrie running in with all the joy 
and the sincerity of youth, and taking Douglass’s hand, said with 

VOL. I. 11 


122 


WALSINGHAM, 


a smile, “ My congratulations, although last, are not the less 
sincere.” 

“ You are rather in error there, my dear Julia,” replied Ro- 
bert, “ for you are the first to congratulate me ; and in return, I 
will present you to my best friend, Mr. Stanhope. Here, 
Charles,” he said, “ here is my little favourite” — a blush came 
over her cheek, — “ as nice a young lady as heart ever warmed, 
and who intends to rival her sister’s beauty.” 

“ That’s impossible^' replied Charles ; but recollecting the 
bad compliment it was to Julia, he managed to bungle out of 
the unhappy speech by saying, “ that although the promises 
were good, yet that no mother could be so blessed.” Then 
came divers congratulations, many inquiries into the unexpected 
windfall. From Margaret, however, came this remark : “ that 
she was glad to see Robert so prosperous, and flattered to find 
he still remembered his best friends at the cottage.” 

There could be no mistaking this : it was an evident signal 
that hostilities had ceased, and an amity had begun. But Robert 
knew not why it was, for Margaret was beautiful as ever, that 
he distrusted this apparently honest friendship. He had watched 
her behaviour, and had observed that although she made those 
false advances to him, her real attack seemed diverted towards 
Stanhope. Her disposition to flirt and to conquer was too evi- 
dent : she considered Robert as hers, and now she wished to 
entice Stanhope into her snares. 

Any woman might have admired Stanhope : He w^as of a 
good height, rather a dark complexion, with brilliant eyes ; his 
features being w^ell formed — nay, handsome. He wore on his 
countenance the honesty, the integrity of his heart. He spoke, 
excepting when Margaret was the theme, like the straightforward 
soldier he was. To a good classical education he had added 
the accomplishments gained by travelling; and whilst he stood 
firmly as an English soldier, he could turn the lighter words of 
compliment, or fascinate by the melody of his voice. It was 
quite evident to any casual beholder that Stanhope was captured 
without firing a shot, and that Margaret only sought the prize 
in order to swell the list of her triumphs. 

Their return to the humble home in order to make the ne- 
cessary preparations for dinner w^as not imterrupted by any 
lover-like fils or starts. Charles was silent, and apparently 
questioning his own heart ; Robert kept his eye fixed upon him, 
and the only words which were spoken were by the latter, who 
asked “ when Charles would be ready to sail to America ?” 


THE GAMESTER. 


123 


Charles looked at the questioner, and could not refrain from a 
smile. 

If poverty makes a man acquainted with strange bedfellows, 
unexpected riches bring many a nominal friend. Robert found 
on his table, although he had not arrived an hour, invitations 
from half the parish. Those who shunned him before were 
anxious for his acquaintance now. The carriage had been passed 
in review by half the community ; the servant had been bored 
to death by inquiries. He happened to mention the beauty of 
Longdale house, and he placed in the hands, or rather the mouths 
of his tormentors, a series of questions to which he was destined 
to answer. He was asked why his master came — when he re- 
turned — how much he had received — who left it ; — in short, 
every thing relative to him, past, present, or future, was seized 
by the dexterous ingenuity of the wondering women. 

They were dressed and ready to start to the cottage — when 
Stanhope, taking Douglass by the arm, said : “ One word in 
confidence, Robert. Be candid with me : have you any serious 
intentions as regards Margaret. Tell me, 1 entreat you, the 
truth.” 

“ On my honour, Charles, I have not the least intention of 
resuming my former situation of her lover,” replied Douglass. 

“ Her admirer, as far as her beauty goes, I am still ; but I will 
pledge you my honour that I will never make her another pro- 
position.” 

“ Then I am more easy,” replied Stanhope ; “ for I own to 
you that I feel myself led captive already : I never saw so 
splendid a jewel before.” 

“ Oh, oh !” said Douglass, “ you will feel diflferently when 
we are in America.” 

“ To America I don’t go, Robert, until that girl is Margaret 
Stanhope, or I a lost man.” 

“ I’here’s many a lost man found in America,” replied Doug- 
lass with a smile. 

At dinner they were placed according to their own desires. 
The mamma and the two daughters were separated by the cler- 
gyman and themselves. The reverend divine paid great atten- 
tion to Mrs. Anson ; Charles made a most vigorous assault upon 
Margaret ; whilst Robert by soft endearment gradually sapped 
the breastworks of Julia’s heart. Never were three men so 
placed exactly to their wishes, and perhaps never were three- 
women more agreeable. They made no noisy chorus, no open- 
mouthed hullabaloo ; but they spoke lowly in duets, or sighed 


124 


WALSINGHAlVf, 


in solos. After dinner, whilst the clergyman and Mrs. Ansoft 
were engaged at backgammon, Julia and Douglass tried chess, 
and Charles sung to the accompaniment of Margaret. It was 
Saturday night, and it was close upon Sunday morning before 
they reached home. Before they departed, they were engaged 
for the morrow. 

“Well,” said Charles, as he drew his chair to the table and 
filled a glass of champagne, (for Douglass had taken care to have 
all good things sent down,) “my flint is fixed; 1 am, thank 
God, independent, and I do not leave this village until I know 
if 1 am to be married or not. As for the soldier’s coat, that is 
none the worse for a woman’s care ; as for the musket ” 

“You had better discharge that,” interrupted Robert, “ or 
you may be sent off like a shot yourself. Margaret will never 
dangle after a walking captain ; and you had better change your 
flint for a cap, or perhaps she will set hers for you.” 

“ That would discharge me more readily than her words,” 
replied Stanhope. “ But tell me, Robert, your plain undisguised 
opinion of her: do not extenuate, or set aught down in 
malice.” 

“ My judgment, as Mr. Verity would say,” answered Doug- 
lass, “ is summed up from my own notes. In the first place, 
all evidence is in favour of her beauty : we therefore give her 
the full benefit of that redeeming virtue. She is a cold beauty, 
a kind of Lot’s wife, not satisfied with her lot — without any of 
the scdt of accomplishments, though, like Peter, a catcher of 
men.” 

“ A very pretty picture !” ejaculated Charles. 

“ Just so,” retorted Robert; “ a very pretty picture, set in a 
very pretty frame. However, I am bound to say, she never, 
that I knew, painted herself.” 

“ The bell-ringers, sir,” said John, as he entered, “ send 
their compliments, and hope you will be kind enough to re- 
member them.” 

“ Here, give them this guinea,” said Douglass, “ and tell them, 

I hope they will never ring the changes (or me again, excepting 
when another belle goes nearer the altar than the steeple.” ^ 

“ Why, Robert, you are, notwithstanding your mourning, 
pretty gay this evening.” 

“ I say, Charles, did you see me playing at chess ?” 

“ I saw you moving the men,” replied his companion. 

“ So I did, and I found a mate. Although it is scarcely a 
month since I proposed to Margaret, yet I gave Julia a hint. 


THE GAMESTER. 


125 


that we talked of knights and bishops in such a brisk running 
of words that we never came to a check.” 

“ Poor little soul !” replied Stanhope ; “ only sixteen ! Why, 
you must hire a nurse for her.” 

“ All in good time, my dear fellow,” replied Douglass, whose 
spirits were high enough without any artificial aid. “Don’t be 
alarmed ; we shall require them, I dare say. And now for an 
expose on my part : I will marry Julia, or I’ll — ” 

“ Go to America,” said Charles ; “and I will have Margaret, 
and be your brother.” 

They warmed over this conversation ; but the Sabbath had 
begun, and Robert remembered the lesson of example which 
old Houghton had given him. 


11# 


126 


WALSINGHAM, 


CHAPTER XIIL 


There is something beautifully solemn during the Sabbath 
in the country — it appears in reality a day of rest ; and often 
may the labourer have stood on a rising ground near Merevvorth, 
iJoking over the beauty of Yotes, and wondering at the still- 
ness of heaven. The bell which summons to prayer threw its 
deep tone over the valley ; but the cattle seemed hushed — the 
air was still, not a leaf moved, and nature itself was relaxed 
from its labours and resting on the seventh day. That day 
brings with it rest to the weary and repose to the active ; it 
gives a stimulus to exertion ; it makes the guilty afraid, and the 
good satisfied. And if that silence, that repose, is broken when 
the prayers of the Sabbath are over, and innocent recreation 
triumphs over idle inaction, is this wholesome restoration to be 
called a sin, and should bigoted legislators rise to crush the 
harmless pastime? Away with such inconsistency — such 
tyranny ! You will allow the labourer to smoke, to drink, to 
assemble together — you hold out a premium upon drunkenness, 
and you repress the very innocent amusement which would 
wean them from a villanous expenditure of their hard-earned 
wages, and rid them of the surest enemy to health and content- 
ment known since the days of Noah. 

Robert entered the church with a firm step, and a firmer re- 
solution, to offer up his most sincere thanksgivings for his power 
to do good, and earnestly to implore the Divine assistance to 
employ his means for the benefit of his fellow-creatures. He 
felt shocked at the idle curiosity which prompted all his former 
acquaintances to watch his manner and to scan his companion. 
He led Stanhope to his pew ; and if he had required an example 
to pray, that excellent man would have served him as a model : 
his was fervent prayer; his eyes never wandered even to her he 
most loved, but his responses were low and impressive. It oc- 
curred to Robert that he had never seen a man more solemn in 
the house of prayer, or more cheerful and contented out of it. 
Mr. Maxwell preached ; and no sooner was his text given, than 
Douglass was again the public gaze of the congregation : even 


THE GAMESTER. 


127 


Stanhope touched him with his knee, and Robert felt like a sin- 
ner about to receive a rebuke as the preacher the second time 
repeated the words of his text, — “For man walketh in a vain 
shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain : he heapeth up riches, 
and cannot tell who shall gather them.” 

The discourse, ably written, eloquently preached, touched 
Douglass in the right place. Once Mr. Maxwell in plain words 
alluded to him, and implored him to turn the resources now in 
his power, not to idle dissipation, but to the relief of the indi- 
gent : he spoke of those “ who gave to the poor, lending to the 
Lord,” and he warned him to lay up riches in heaven. It was 
not without a secret pang that Douglass listened with all atten- 
tion to that excellent man’s advice ; and when his book was 
closed, he most solemnly prayed to put his words into execu- 
tion. As Stanhope left the church to make his bow and join 
the Ansons, Douglass remained in his pew and baffled curiosity: 
for it was not until the clergyman had withdrawn to the vestry, 
that he rose, and, to the wonder of those who hunt after novel- 
ties, followed Mr. Maxwell to his retreat. The rector seemed 
rather astonished at his entrance; but when he took his hand 
and thanked him for his excellent advice, he saw a glow of satis- 
faction pass over his countenance. 

“ 1 know,” said Robert, “ my dear sir, how vainly in this 
life we propose to act, — the disposition is above : but I arn 
anxious to show you that I had partially forestalled your sermon, 
You know how slender have been my means of doing good, 
and you know that for four years 1 have resided near you, un- 
able, — positively unable to contribute much towards the relief of 
the poor. That is now passed, and I hasten to avail myself of 
this first opportunity to contribute something to the alleviation 
of the distresses of my fellow-parishioners. Allow me to place 
this cheque in your hand, to be distributed in any manner and 
to whatever objects you may think deserving. — Good morning: 
we meet, 1 believe, at six.” And Robert was soon with the 
Ansons, who had awaited his coming. 

“You don’t want a second,” said Charles with a smile on 
his countenance, “ do you ? Clergymen are privileged people, 
and we must avail ourselves of their advice without feeling 
hurt.” 

“ Kindly considered, my dear Stanhope : perhaps I may want 
you to carry a message to him before long; but at present he 
and myself are on very good terms, I assure you.” 

Those little civilities which mark the charm of civilised life 


128 


WALSINGHAM, 


passed between them as they walked home ; Stanhope keeping 
close to Margaret, who seemed to have fancied his society more 
than Robert believed the marble statue could have done, whilst 
he himself steadily fixed his attentions upon Julia ; and although 
Mrs. Anson did occasionally manoeuvre so as to place them in 
other positions, yet they were mutually attracted, and a mother 
might have seen that their eyes met more frequently than those 
of casual and cold visiters. 

It is said that love is a plant which grows directly from the 
heart, winding its roots round the centre of life, and endanger- 
ing its existence when it is suddenly torn away. “ It cannot 
come from the head,” says Hood, in his “ Tylney Hall but, 
with all due deference to that talented and witty author, some men 
hold him to be mistaken. Love is more generally grown in the 
head, and ultimately lakes root in the heart. The gipsy’s rub- 
bish had first given the slip of this precious fiower to Julia, and 
Robert soon transplanted it to a warmer region. In the mean- 
time, Stanhope was gradually, as he thought, progressing : he 
had got to “ shaking hands,” “ making eyes,” and many other 
of the early resting-places of incipient affection. - 

They had been a week, and then a fortnight, and ultimately 
a month, residing in a village out of which Douglass would 
three months previous have paid half his little store to have got. 
He had rather gained ground from the trumpet-tongued praise of 
Mr. Maxwell, who extolled the liberality of his parochial dona- 
tion, which wns 200/., into the munificent offering of a prince. 
It now became evident that both Stanhope and Douglass were 
bound to make a declaration of their sentiments ; and as they 
talked over that important point, they came to the resolution of 
making their hand-offerings on the following day, each lecturing 
the other. 

“ Depend upon it,” said Robert, “ you have mistaken Mar- 
garet. “ Had she heard that your sister had given you 20,000/. 
of her money, the case might be different; but as she believes 
you not worth one straw beyond your pay, you will find that 
^ she is indifferent to your person, although proud of the con- 
quest.” 

“And you, my dear Robert,” replied Charles, “will find that 
Julia does not know the feeling of love. She is too young; 
arid notwithstanding your wealth, the mother will never consent 
to the sacrifice of her daughter’s health by allowing her to marry 
when only sixteen.” 

“ There you are wrong, Charles, believe me,” replied Douglass; 


TftE GAMESTER. 


129 


“ for a mother seldom weighs all the may-be results of a match 
when 70,000/. and Longdale House are in the scale.” 

“ I cannot have so poor an opinion,” retorted Charles, “ of 
human nature, as to believe that any parent thinks of money 
when her daughter’s health is concerned.” 

“ Then, my dear fellow, you are in a happy state of igno- 
rance as to match-making,” replied Robert. 

The morning came, and noon saw them at the cottage resolved 
to sell their freedoms. Robert felt certain of success, for he had 
watched the constant struggle between love and propriety ; he 
had seen those little sparkling eyes constantly fixed upon him, 
and he knew quite enough of the world and of the innocence of 
Julia to know that her eyes only beamed with the true senti- 
ments of her heart ; but he confessed he had his misgivings as 
to the result of his friend’s proposition, for he had been rejected 
there himself under similar circumstances, and Stanhope, who 
was willing to be loved only for himself, had bound Douglass 
to a strict promise not to betray his fortune. He himself never 
hinted one word about his money or his expectations, but kept 
a guarded silence in respect to both. 

It was May, the latter end of it ; all the flowers of the spring 
were in their glorious liveries, and Nature was rejoicing in her 
beauty. The walks, shaded by occasional lilacs and laburnums, 
looked enticing for lovers who like solitude, and Douglass and 
Julia were soon seated on a rustic chair in a bower perfumed 
by the beautiful odour of the former flower. Robert held Julia’s 
hand, and tenderly regarded her lovely face. There was an 
intense glow of languid feeling, and her eyes seemed swollen 
with unusual moisture : there were no tears, but the tremour of 
love had reached her heart. They sat with eyes fixed on each 
other, and the tongues of both seemed debarred the power of utter- 
ance. At length Douglass said, as he gently pressed her hand,— 

“ My own, my dearest Julia ! let me seize this moment to 
confess by words what you must have often seen and known by 
my manner. — Tell me, then, if the love I feel has found its 
echo in your heart. Nay, dearest Julia ! do not weep, or turn 
away that flushed but charming face ; tell me, my angel, if I am 
to be so blessed,— that in throwing myself and my fortune at 
your feet, I may venture to hope your love for me is equal to 
mine, and that days of happiness are yet in store for me.” 

She did not answer, but there was an acquiescence in her 
silence — she did not withdraw her hand as Robert gently 
pressed it to his heart ; when a flood of tears had relieved her 


130 


WALSINGHAM, 


from her maiden coyness, she turned towards him, and in a 
voice scarcely audible, she returned the pressure of his hand 
and answered, “Robert.” 

’Twas done; — Robert felt his love returned ; he knew her 
sincerity, there was nature in all her answers ; no forced 
blushes, no accidental tears, but the pure emanation from a 
heart now confessedly his. 

There are nioments of life worth preserving in ideal spirits, if to 
time we could give corporeal substance, and embalm it with the ^ 
fragrance of oriental perfumes. These moments are few ; and 
perhaps, throughout the long catalogue of imaginary pleasures 
with which the gloom of boyhood and manhood is enlightened, 
none can shadow forth such enjoyment, such perfect unadul- 
terated happiness, as where pure love is offered and welcomed. 
We speak not of the cold, creeping tremour of appetite; 
,we speak not of the pride of heart, when beauty is subdued and 
.passion satisfied; but of that warm, generous feeling which 
would sacrifice life itself to the object it solicited. How long 
they enjoyed this rapture they knew not: the car of Time is 
said to move quickly over the verdant ground of pleasure, whilst 
pain lingers on the pace of the tortoise ; swiftly flew the chariot 
of enjoyment, and as they talked of happiness to come, and 
formed plans of future felicity, the hours flew, and already the 
lengthening shadows of evening announced the necessity of their 
return. 

Robert urged Julia to make an instant appeal to her mother, 
for well he knew the danger of teaching dissimulation to a pa- 
rent. Can the husband expect fidelity, when he himself gives 
the lesson of deceit to his wife ? — No. The man who sees in 
his partner the proper glow and afl^ection of the daughter towards 
her parent, and that warmth of cordiality towards her sister, 
may fairly presume, that she who is a good daughter, a sincere 
sister, and a true friend, will in all human probability make a 
good wife. Julia was young, not seventeen, and these marks of 
filial attachment rendered the prospect more brilliant. Robert 
desired her to relate exactly his feelings, which he would after- 
wards confirm : “ That although he was as great an admirer of 
Margaret’s beauty as ever, still that he could not insult her by 
fostering the love she had desired him no longer to nourish ; 
but that her beauty, Robert saw, was reflected in her sister’s 
face, and that her young heart had accepted the bird driven 
from the abode it once thought to occupy. 

Robert now quickly questioned Julia concerning the chance 


THE GAMESTER. 


131 


of success in regard to Stanhope, who, he knew, would take a 
refusal to heart more seriously than Robert had done, for he had 
a balm of consolation the very evening administered by that 
most excellent Mercury, Verity ; and although love is a very 
generous plant, money is no weed, and if any way related to 
the garden of Flora, it must be in the poppy, which occasions 
sweet slumbers and gives high spirits. Julia’s apprehensions 
first gave Robert a warning of what he might expect, she hav- 
ing repeated to him the scene relative to the conversation which 
we have already mentioned. Again and again they exchanged 
their vows ; he kissed her animated cheek, and at five o’clock 
left her at her own house. Robert inquired for Stanhope — the 
servant told him he had returned home some time since ; he 
asked for Mrs. Anson — she w^as indisposed ; he ventured to 
name Margaret — she was dressing for dinner. He therefore 
took his leave, telling Julia that he would return in the evening, 
and with hasty strides reached the door. 

We have described Stanhope before — at least his mind. He 
was a man who had less of the world’s shuffles and cuts than 
any other human being we ever met with : he was as brave as 
a lion, and with women as timid and reserved as a midshipman. 
Robert found him sealed by the table, his head resting on his 
arms ; and when he raised himself to meet him, his whole coun- 
tenance betrayed the grief which he had so seriously ex- 
perienced. 

“ Now, then, Charles,” said Robert, for he was in high 
spirits, — “ now then, iny boy, as the sailors say, let’s overhaul 
our log-books : let’s see which has made best weather during the 
squalls. But you are looking sad enough : what’s the matter, 
my boy?” 

“ I am eternally rendered miserable, Robert; I shall never be 
; happy again.” 

■ “ Then she has accepted you, Charles, and you repent 
already.” 

“No, no, indeed she has not, Robert; she has refused me 
nearly as coolly as she discarded you ; and now hope is dead, 
for I never could bring myself to offer again. 

“ Take a glass of wine, Charles, and let’s hear all about it : I 
can assist you, I can bring it all right, — but out with the story — 
i let’s hear it all,” said Robert. 

“ Merely this, Robert : — When you went into the bower, I 
went into the fields. We strayed faraway; and when I thought 
she could not run all the way home as she did with you, I at 


132 


WALSINGHAM, 


once opened upon the subject, breaking ground gradually, and ad- 
vancing by parallels to the very ditch before the battery ; and then 
I took her hand. I made no romantic speeches, but, like a soldier, 
and consequently like a man, I warmly confessed my feelings, my 
admiration of herself and her beauty. She gave no sudden start, 
no tears swelled her eyes. I held her hand — it was motionless; 
I pressed it — she returned it not ; and when in plain terms I 
told her of my love, she looked me unmoved in the face and 
smiled. I pressed her to consent to be mine ; she replied — 
“ She had never thought upon the subject ; but that she feared 
she could not meet my wishes, as her mother had destined her 
for you.” 

“ Do you love Robert?" I said — “ nay, be candid, my dearest 
Margaret, — do you love him ?” 

“ No,” she drawlingly repMed : “ I like him well enough ; 
but as to loving him, I don’t think I do.” 

“ You cannot conceive how I felt, I, with all my warmth of 
heart, to find myself so slighted after all my attention, after all 
my affection. And you, Robert 1” 

“ Me ! — but hang it, Charles, you have not done 1 Did you 
abandon the attack after skirmishing 1 — after you had opened the 
breach, did you not assault?” 

“ Oh yes, assault after assault, but I never placed a footstep 
upon the battery ; I was repulsed, beaten back — and not by any 
warm engagement, I assure you. Now, I am miserable. I 
make a feeble effort at wit, as men just before execution have 
been known to jest; but Robert, I am, I assure you, rendered 
unhappy for life. I love that woman warmly, fervently, and I 
cannot bear this cold, this unusual refusal — or rather, chilling 
apathy, for actual refusal she never condescended to give.” 

“ Then live and hope, Charles,” replied Robert. “ Now, 
for myself, Julia is mine, and through her your success is 
sure. Come, cheer up ! After dinner I am going to the 
cottage to speak to Mrs. Anson. I expect some little sur- 
prise at my change of persons, and now I will wager any sum 
that no obstacles are thrown in the way, — for you I have a sure 
mode. But I do not see why you should not accompany me ; 
for although Margaret did not consent, she did not actually re- 
fuse. And as in love or friendship, which knows no cold 
medium, either you will be dancing up to the sky like a boy on 
a see saw, or you will be levelled with the dust, so let us fortify 
ourselves with the generous champagne, and at eight we will 
again move our columns to the attack. — Dinner, John.” 


1 


THE GAMESTER. 


133 


In vain Robert rallied Charles ; he was as far below as Robert 
was above concert pilch, and consequently their sentiments kept 
I)iit little harmony. Whilst Robert was buoyant with hope, and 
attributing to his own dear self what perhaps sisterly jealousy, 
envy, and money might have controlled, Charles still harped 
upon the same chord, — the cold, ungenerous manner of Margaret. 

“ I tell you what Charles,” said Robert, “Margaret is no 
flirt — she is too ingenuous for that ; but she is naturally cold, 
and, I was going to say, heartless. Many — nay, all who have 
seen, have admired her; but mark my words, if she escapes 
you^ she will be like the lonely apple offered to the guests after 
dinner atEchmiadzan, which is smelt by all and lasted by none.”^ 

“ Ah,” said Charles, with a smile which looked like the ghost 
of a laugh ; “ and if ever I marry, I will lake care, out of pure 
revenge, to follow up the manner of the present Chaldeans, and 
mash my bride’s feet to a mummy, in order to hold the supre- 
macy for ever afier.”t 

“ Well said, my boy; and stamp more feeling in her feet than 
she has in her heart.” 

The evening came, and at eight o’clock Charles and Robert 
went to the cottage. They were admitted, but found only Mrs. 
Anson in the drawing-room. Robert advanced with all the con- 
fidence of a triumphant lover and a most dutiful son-in-law ; but 
he was rather checked than encouraged by the guarded manner 
of the mother, who certainly did not bid him to rush into her 
arms, and become the prop and support of her growing age. 
She received Charles with a more condescending coolness, and 
they all three kept looking at each other like so many strange 
cals in a garret. At length Robert began by inquiring for the 
young ladies, and soon saw in which quarter the wind set, by 
receiving for answer, that the child (meaning Julia) had gone to 
bed, it being a bad plan to keep such late hours, then only nine 
o’clock, and that Margaret was not well ; — in short, she said, 
“ I fear Margaret walked too far to-day, for she appeared very 
much overcome when she returned.” 

During this conversation, Mrs. Anson occasionally glanced a 
rather repulsive look at Charles, who soon twisted it into a kind 
of death-warrant, and, with the readiness of a woman, discovered 
he had left his handkerchief at home, and taking his hat, walked 
off, intending to await the return of Robert, or to return if Robert 
remained long enough to give hope a chance. 

* See Missionary Researches in Armenia. 

VOL. I. 12 


t Ibid. 


134 


WALSINGHAM, 


He had no sooner quitted the room, than Mrs. Anson saved 
playing any prelude or conjuring up an overture by breaking at 
once into the grand opera thus : — 

“ I am more surprised, Mr. Douglass, than I can express, at 
what has taken place to-day ; and I really feel that I should not 
either do credit to my daughter’s feelings or my own, if I lost a 
moment in assuring you, that however much I may feel gratified 
at this second choice you have made, by which you prepared 
me for the honour you would confer upon my family, yet that I 
never could consent to Julia’s marriage, at her tender age, to a 
man who has made the same avowal of affection to her elder 
sister. Neither can I hold out any hope to Mr. Stanhope, since 
the very reason that I formerly gave you, is applicable to him- 
self. It is a duty a mother owes her daughters to see them if 
possible comfortably settled in life, and to guard them from in- 
sult. I shall not fail in the former, whatever I may have done 
in the latter.” 

“ Really, Mrs. Anson,” replied Robert, “ I am at a loss how 
to comprehend you. Surely the declaration of affection is no 
insult, or the offer of a fortune a blow against being comfortably 
settled ; but the course of affection and true love never yet ran 
without interruption, and I am fully prepared to meet with, and 
to overcome all obstacles, for my proposition is honourable, my 
love sincere.” 

“Indeed, Mr. Douglass!” replied Mrs. Anson; and how do 
you suppose Margaret must feel, who of course expected you 
would resume your attentions to her, and not have chosen as 
a rival her own sister, a very child, who would better become 
the nursery than the altar.” 

“ It was,” resumed Robert, “ the idea that I had paid Miss 
Margaret the most marked attention, that I felt both my inclina- 
tion and my honour prompt me to make the proposition I did. 
She laughed at -me — she thus refused me', and you, my dear 
madam, added your approval of your daughter’s conduct — you 
refused me. Why then should you have anticipated a renewal 
of that you yourself forbid? and how could I pay so bad a com- 
pliment to Margaret, as to offer myself again, when it would be 
evident that my wealth, not myself, would be accepted ?” 

“ You should have been a solicitor, Mr. Douglass ; and if you 
used your ingenuity, and your subtlety as well for your client as 
you have done for yourself, you would gain every cause.” 

“Then, madam,” replied Douglass, “I may hope that my 
defence will gain my present Mrs. Anson shook her 


THE GAMESTER. 


135 


head. “You say no; but I trust you' will not object to listen 
to my explanation already given, and the evident insult I 
should offer to my friend and myself, if I were — for which I am 
not the least inclined— to shift my ground, and as the hunters say, 
try back again. No, Mrs. Anson ; from the moment I received 
the cold refusal of Margaret, when she, as well as yourself sus- 
pected me of falsehood in regard to Mr. Houghton, and when 
you kindly — I must say most kindly, desired me to abandon all 
pursuit, I did so ; I obeyed your orders to the very letter, — I 
struck her out from my heart ; I allowed her no longer to oc- 
cupy a thought, and I felt rising within me an attachment for 
Julia ; I nourished it, — it grew and blossomed ; it was offered 
and accepted — my hand and my fortune are hers. The folly of 
calling a woman of seventeen a child — an infant, is too glaring, 
and I know you only did it in order to give me time to make 
this explanation. No power on earth could ever draw me back 
to Margaret; my love is Julia’s, and to her, whatever may be 
your present intention, I intend to devote myself ” 

“And Margaret?” interrupted Mrs. Anson. 

“ — Will not feel the slightest emotion of bruised affection, 
since that could not have grown since my return ; for I have 
cautiously devoted myself to Julia. I hope she explained to you 
the nature of our conversation — in fact, the offer of my hand, 
and her acceptance ?” 

“ She has,” replied Mrs. Anson, “ and I chid her for her 
folly ; but I see — ” and here Mrs. Anson took me by the hand 
and continued smiling — “ the gipsy will be right, and I need not 
oppose.” 

“ Then that is settled, and I am to be your son,” replied 
Douglass ; “ and here I offer my first duty to my parent.” And 
as he kissed her face, he heard the door open ; and before he 
had unwound his affectionate arms, the Rev. Mr. Marshall was 
there, gaping like an alligator catching flies. 

“Ah, that indeed,” he began, “I did not expect, or I would 
not have interrupted such amiable weakness and he glanced a 
look at Mrs. Anson which called up her blushes and recalled 
her youth and beauty. 

“ It shall be no secret to you, Mr. Marshall ” 

“Oh, none at all,” said the clergyman, “ for I saw it.” 

“ No, no ! ” 

“ Ah, but I say, yes, yes! and, as the chancellor said, I say, 
yesJ*^ 

“ Nonsense, Mr. Marshall,” 


136 


WALSINGHAM, 


“ So I think, madam.” 

“ I tell yon, he only gave that kiss ” 

“ I’m not so sure of that, madam.” 

“ — As an offering ^ ” 

“ No doubt of it.” 

“ — Which any man in his situation— — ” 

“ Most certainly.” 

“ — Had a right to do.” 

“ Indeed !” 

“ Yes, indeed ! for he is to be my son-in-law.” 

Mr. Marshall’s face puckered up to its usual goodness, and 
taking Douglass by the hand, said, “ I congratulate you on your 
choice and Margaret on her good fortune.” 

Before they could clear up the mystery, Margaret entered, 
followed by Charles. “I congratulate you, my dear Margaret, 
with all my heart and soul,” said this worthy rector: “you 
could not have made a more excellent choice, or have chosen 
one who, to judge both from his liberality and his candour, is 
likely to make you a good and aflfectionate husband.” (Mrs. 
Anson had been pulling away at the reverend’s coat tail during 
the whole of this.) “Your mollier wanted to tell you herself; 
but 1 am before her in the good work, and I congratulate you 
both, only requesting that I may finish what I have begun.” 
So saying, he turned round, and without regarding who it was, 
for he had not seen Stanhope enter, he took his hand and placed 
it in Margaret’s. 

“There,” said he, as he turned round to Mrs. Anson, “I have 
done it here, and will do it at church : I have joined their hands, 
and made them one by promise. I hardly know how, Mr. 
Douglass, to thank ?/ow,” (he said this so marked that it con- 
firmed Charles that no mistake could be made,) “ for your 
princely munificence; and when you marry, many a heart will 
rejoice and be made merry.” 

Mrs. Anson, when the rector turned to Douglass, in order to 
avoid the eclair cissement, left the room ; and both Margaret and 
Charles were fully convinced that a change had come over the 
spirit of the walk ; Charles believing that Robert had effected 
it ; and Margaret, giving way to her mother’s choice, for she 
had none of her own, blushed slightly, and sat down near the 
piano. 

Robert was quite aware of the consequence of the discovery ; 
and as the only method of rendering it less painful to Charles, 
he proposed to withdraw and return home. But Stanhope w'as 


THE GAMESTER. 


137 


in no mood to accept the offer : he, on the contrary, drew his 
chair close to Margaret’s, and began some of those gentle, soft 
speeches to Margaret, whose hand he took, and which was not 
withdrawn. We are quite aware that our description of this 
lady may appear a little out of nature ; but, as Byron says, 
“ truth is much stranger than fiction.” So in this case it is evi- 
dent : Margaret lives at this moment apparently the gayest of 
the gay, and certainly one of the loveliest of creation. 

“ That is all as it should be, Mr. Douglass,” said the rector : 
“ ‘ love me, love my dog.’ I see Margaret admires your hand- 
some friend ; and you have such confidence in her, that you are 
not jealous.” 

“ Not I, sir, I assure you,” was the reply. “ Charles may 
love Margaret as mucl) as he likes, Margaret may return the 
compliment, without causing any jealousy in my breast ; but, 
sir, one word;” and taking the rector into a corner, he whis- 
pered to him the whole state of the case, and urged him to sup- 
port Charles’s cause. “ He is,” Robert continued, “ a most 
excellent man, although rather deficient in that which is by 
worldly people more considered than talent, temper, or merit.” 

“Then, sir, you are to marry Julia, after having proposed to 
Margaret ?” 

“ Just so ; and iiere she is, blushing and looking ashamed to 
meet the man who is to unite us. My own, my beautiful Julia ! 
this is kind, after your fatigue, to solace me by your presence. 
Come and explain our mutual histories to Mr. Marshall, whilst 
I have Charles brought to book by Mrs. Anson, for I vow that 
match shall not go off for a few pounds.” 

“ You have drawn a prize, Julia,” said Mr. Marshall, “ and 
let me counsel you how to keep him firmly, unalterably yours. 
This is a match I shall be proud to join ; for if the temper of 
the woman and the character of the man would warrant a pro- 
phecy of felicity, my little Julia and my generous Robert are 
the most likely people to find it.” 

“Indeed, sir,” said Mrs. Anson as she addressed Charles, “I 
cannot give my consent to this hasty marriage. You say Mar- 
garet has consented : if so, it must be under the mistake occa- 
sioned by Mr. Marshall. But in saying that I do not, cannot 
consent, understand me as conveying no slight upon yourself or 
your family. A parent’s duty is her daughter’s welfare ; and 
certainly that would not be much enhanced by an alliance with 
one of your slender fortune. I do not say this as a rebuke, but 
as a duty, Mr. Stanhope.” 


13 ^ 


138 


WALSINGHAM, 


“ May I ask,” said Charles with a look of some earnestness, 

“ what Mrs. Anson would consider a sufficient fortune to be 
possessed by him who in return is to possess such a treasure?” 

“ I am not usurious in my demands,” replied Mrs. Anson, 

“ but I never will consent to Margaret’s marriage without the 
man of her choice and mine can settle at least 10,000/. Then 
1 should feel convinced that nothing short of a national bank- 
ruptcy could reduce them to actual poverty.” 

“Your objection then, madam, is to be overcome if I could 
settle 10,000/.?” said Charles, as he fixed his eyes full upon 
those of Mrs. Anson. 

“ Certainly,” was the reply : “ and if you could settle that, 
or even 8,000/., so much do I esteem you and admire your cha- 
racter, that I would instantly Join your hands.” 

“Then, madam, allow me to say, that I here pledge myself 
to settle 15,000/.; and I call Robert in to stand my security. 
He knows me incapable of a falsehood, and he will hear with 
pleasure, that my sister, on her being placed in possession of 
her fortune, did, with her husband’s consent, present me with 
20,000/. This I was resolved to keep a secret, to be beloved 
for my own, and not for my money’s sake. So Margaret is 
mine, and we are to have a double wedding.” 

Robert was called, and stood security for Charles, — indeed, 
he had made his mind up to have advanced a few thousands 
rather than this match should have been off ; the rector stood 
witness to the agreement ; and thus the lowering clouds of the 
evening were all dispelled. Charles ran to his beloved Mar- 
garet, whose cold manner would have converted another to an 
icicle; but Charles believed it “prudent restraint,” “maiden 
modesty,” and half a score of other fine expressions and senti- 
ments, which any but a lover might have seen and have known 
to be false. 

O that the blessing of Marshall had been sanctified and made 
holy ! At that moment no mortals had fairer views of terres- 
trial enjoyment; no one would have prayed for a prospect more 
brilliant than that of Douglass. But the clearest morn may by 
noon be overcast ; and before the clouds of night close over the 
grave of day, the torrent may have fallen, — the tempest may 
have burst. 


THE GAMESTER. 


139 


CHAPTER XIV. 


It was an eventful day on which both couple we^e married. 
The bells rang llieir merry peal, the villagers crowded round the 
church — the day was beautiful, and the scene lively. The 
party had been augmented by Mr. and Mrs. Walton, who came 
to see their brother Charles made happy : but Douglass had not 
a relation on earth ; he was now about to form a new connexion, 
and he certainly valued life the more since he had now some 
object to live for. The cottage was not far distant from the 
church, and the carriages made a very imposing line as they 
drove at a good pace to that porch which now for the last lime 
was destined to see Douglass pass under its cover. 

Julia was extremely affected; but Margaret looked on with a 
stoical indifference which Stanhope dignified as courage. Some 
little time was lost in arranging the preliminary ceremonies ; 
but before eleven o’clock Mr. Marshall had placed the party by 
the altar, and having looked round the church in order to en- 
force silence, — for the rustle of dresses and the shuffling of 
shoes would have rendered him almost inaudible, — he began. 

By that altar stood Julia, now between sixteen and seventeen. 
Her face was partially shaded by the long Brussels veil ; but 
her beautiful dark eye, her rosy lip, and her pallid cheek, were 
perfectly visible. Her look was that of fervent devotion ; and 
as the tear stole from her eyes and rapidly coursed down her 
face, the soft whisper of hope came to restore her to herself. 
Her mother’s melancholy appearance contrasted sadly with that 
eye of expectant happiness. 

But there was Margaret, robed in a splendid white satin dress, 
devoid of all ornaments but one, which was a brooch of pearls, 
imitating lilies-of-lhe*valley, set in dead gold. A wreath of 
orange-flowers encircled her head, over which was thrown a 
superb blond lace veil \vhich nearly shaded her form; her small 
and elegant feet peeped from below the glossy garb, and she 
looked the fairest form and loveliest face that human eye could 
behold. But her features were unmoved ; no tear at parting from 


140 


WALSINGHAM, 


her mother started on her marble countenance,— no flash of 
hope, no lightning of happiness illuminated her beautiful, her 
magnificent features ; even vanity did not seem gratified, or 
caused no sensation of apparent gratification : but, as motionless 
as a bride on canvass stood Margaret, and by her side was 
placed the man she had accepted as her husband. 

The deep sonorous voice of Mr. Marshall as he read that 
impressive, that awful service, thrilled through Douglass. 
Julia’s responses were almost inaudible, whilst Margaret’s 
were firm and without the slightest trepidation. At last the 
word “ amazement” announced the termination of the cere- 
mony : they signed their names ; and whilst Julia Anson was 
a straggle of indefinite lines, Margaret’s was written in the 
same clear hand, with the usual boldness, that would have 
penned an invitation to dinner. Again the merry bells rang 
through the valley ; again the little boys and girls, all eager to 
see so fine a wedding, mingled their shrill voices in the loud 
hurrahs ; whilst the more respectable, at a farther distance, in 
truded not to stare the brides into confusion. 

Gay was the breakfast which had been prepared in tents 
upon the small grassplat at the back of the cottage ; the brides 
retired to change their dresses, and by one o’clock Julia and 
Douglass were on the road to Longdale House. The last per- 
son with whoni Douglass shook hands was Mr. Verity : he had 
been present at the marriage, and with the honesty of manner 
which he always wore, and wore as a right, he implored 
Douglass to treasure up with miserly care and attention the 
lovely little casket which was now his ; he spoke warmly of 
the joys, the real comforts of domestic life, whilst he slightly 
alluded to the danger of fashion, the folly of extravagance. 

In his usual gay manner, he said to Julia as they parted, “ I 
have taken the liberty, my pretty bride, of giving your husband 
a little advice ; and on your account I shall not charge him my 
usual fee, but, with your permission, I being the man who 
brought him the best tidings he ever received, and by which he 
is enabled to make you happy, will take more than the value 
from your lips:” and he kissed her and called her ‘"his child.” 

They drove away. The idle curiosity of some of Dou- 
glass’s old abusers was satisfied ; for, unlike the generality of 
people, who pull down the blinds as if they were guilty of an 
act they were ashamed of, they posted merrily along as common 
travellers, having none of those signals of matrimony misnamed 
favours, and which only tend to make the people who are silly 


THE GAMESTER. 


141 


enough to carry this riding advertisement the show and the 
wonder of the neighbourhood. 

At Longdale House was found every comfort which money 
could purchase. It was a singular fact, that Houghton had paid 
the most unremitting attention to the luxury of life at Longdale, 
when he never intended to reside there himself. 

The newly-married couple became the lions of the place for 
the first month, and then sank down into their proper station. To 
Julia it was a scene of enchantment: young, ardent, loving and 
beloved, she felt the days of life roll rapidly away ; her garden 
she attended herself, her favourite dogs and horses were caressed 
and watched, and in the delight of extending her charity to 
those around her, she won the golden opinions of her neigh- 
bours. Ah! why did not Douglass remain in this paradise? — 
why did he sigh to leave that which monarchs might have en- 
vied ? It was no absolute solitude, no place built in a valley 
from which no other smoke was seen to curl above the many 
trees : but they were surrounded by a plentiful neighbourhood ; 
they were within reach of a country town before ten minutes’ 
moderate walking could have tired them; they had society if 
they wished it, they had solitude at their command. 

Douglass might have had vices which were at this moment 
lulled to rest, but he had not ambition to rise, or rule a state : 
he considered those silent members who pay immensely for 
merely the name of being members of a House, and the privi- 
lege of franking letters, as so many vain-glorious people, who, 
having got within the threshold, are afraid to advance one step 
farther in the path they pant to pursue. Douglass had all he 
wanted, and yet there was a void in his heart. It was a natural 
restless disposition, which poverty had kept down in the village, 
but which now broke forth like half-smothered flame at the ad- 
mission of air. But Julia was so happy in her abode, that, al- 
though a year had passed, she never expressed the smallest wish 
to move from her habitation. But Fate ruled them. 

Douglass happened to have received a book of travels, which at 
that time and up to the present has held a considerable influence 
over the minds of Englishmen ; and it so occurred that they 
both expressed a wish to move a little on the Continent, in 
order, as they smilingly said, to enhance the value of their own 
country, and their own home. Julia had been two months pre- 
vious safely delivered of a boy, and the medical attendant re- 
jcommended change of air when both mother and baby should 
become a little stronger. They therefore agreed to remain quiet 


142 


WALSINGHAM, 


at Longdale until the end of September, then cross to Paris, and 
according to their feelings and disposition arrange their future 
movements. Such being the plan, they remained at home until 
the time proposed, when they put their scheme in practice, and 
early in October arrived at Boulogne. 

Stanhope after his marriage took his beautiful statue to Lon- 
don ; but receiving orders to join his regiment, quartered near 
Worcester, he retired to that dull town, and managed to get 
through life as most men do who have pretty wives and coun- 
try quarters. As far as an honourable man blindly creating his 
wife into a goddess could be happy. Stanhope was so, and so 
remained for some years. 

The morning of Douglass’s departure from Longdale, he arose 
early, and taking his last walk round his domain, gave orders 
to his tenants, directing some few alterations to be made. In 
his return home, he found himself close to the grave of Benja- 
min Houghton. He paused as he read the epitaph he had him- 
self penned. He felt an awful creeping of his flesh as he 
remembered his sad story ; and, mutely gazing at the cenotaph, 
allowed his ideas to take a wide, unbounded range. He felt — 
and well he remembered it in after life — he felt a warning that 
his days of happiness were over, that no longer for him the sun 
of content was destined to shine, that hereafter he should be 
poor and miserable. He shook, or endeavoured to shake, from 
his mind the unwelcome presentiment : but it was useless — it 
clung to his very heart ; and, as he turned to take his last fare- 
well, he thought he heard a deep, deep sigh. Being one of 
those men not overtinged with superstition, he imagined that in 
reality some one might be near and in distress : he therefore 
returned, carefully examined the surrounding bushes, and then 
saying to himself that his ears had deceived him, he hastened 
from the spot, and began to urge the servants to the quicker dis- 
charge of their duty. 

They soon started, and continued at that brisk pace which 
postboys in this blessed country accomplish when the wealthy 
travel and the pay is liberal. They at last came to a slower 
pace, and ultimately to a walk, as they ascended a rather steep 
hill. As Julia expressed a wish to walk, Douglass descended 
with her from the carriage, and they slowly mounted the road. 

On their right was a tent of gipsies, who, to judge from some 
few feathers near the hedge, had not gone supperless to bed. 
The fire of sticks and the suspended kettle announced the pre- 
paration of their breakfast ; whilst an old brown woman peeped 


THE GAMESTER. 


143 


from beneath the tent and eyed the vehicle. A younger one 
now came forward to ask charity ; and both Juliq and Douglass 
recognised the pretty girl whose prophecy they had fulfilled. 
They soon brought to her recollection the cottage and their for- 
tune, which she either remembered, or feigned so well to do, 
that Douglass was convinced she knew them again. 

“Let us see,” said Julia, “ what our destiny may be. I de- 
clare,” she continued, “ 1 have an implicit confidence in your 
foresight ; for you destined me my husband, and here he is to 
answer for himself.” 

Douglass felt extremely annoyed at this childish inclination 
of Julia’s ; but as she never expressed a wish he did not hasten 
to gratify, he gave his consent. But as the carriage had now 
topped the hill, he proposed that the old woman should tell his 
at the same moment that the young one should cross the palm 
of Julia, and thus afford some conversation in comparing their 
very different destinies as they journeyed to Dover. 

Douglass was quite aware that Julia believed a little in the 
mysteries of these strange people; aud therefore, in order to 
secure a good fortune, he gave her half-a-crown, and offered the 
same himself to the old woman. 

They stood apart. Julia’s ear was ready for the reception of 
any strange fortune ; whilst Douglass, it must be confessed, 
foreboded something bad. The old woman, after crossing his 
hand with the silver and asking if he gave it with a free will, 
placed it in her snug pocket, and began to trace the lines of his 
hand: she looked steadfastly at them, then at his face; but 
Douglass interrupted her gaze by urging her to be quick, as 
their time was short. 

“Ay, ay,” she began, “youth is ever impetuous; but this 
is no lime for hurry. See here,” as she looked at the lines, 
“ how plain the marks of misery and want are indented !” and 
she traced her dirty fingers over those lines which every man, 
woman, and child have upon both their hands, and which when 
you look at them form an M, and consequently when regarded 
by another who stands opposite, a W. 

“ It is rather odd,” Douglass remarked, “ that your daughter 
never saw this when she predicted wealth, and love, and happi- 
ness, and every other blessing under the sun.” 

“ She only saw the present,” replied the old withered black- 
eyed hag ; “ I see the future : — listen, and remember the lines of 
Margery Colston, for they shall be true, as that your wife was 
not your first love.” 


144 


WALSINGHAM, 


Struck rather by this truth, which Douglass might have 
known was a saying as old as the hills, he listened to the 
“ creaking couplets” of this modern Sybil, who, after clearing 
her croak, thus began : 

“ Thy way through life is sadly crost — 

A fortune won, a fortune lost ! 

Advice unheeded , — man beware 

Of friendly smile and gambler’s snare. ^ 

I see through shrouds of distant time 
Long years of misery and crime ; 

A barren branch of infamy ! 

This is the gipsy’s prophecy !” 

And before Douglass could bribe her to unsay her spell, she 
darted into her tent and threw herself on the ground. Douglass 
turned to his wife, and found her alone, and pale, and breathless. 

“Good God! Julia,” he exclaimed; “what ails you, my 
dear? — you look frightened to death.” 

“ And arn,” she replied. “ I wish I never had heard the voice 
of that dingy girl ; for I shall now from this moment feel the 
truth of her saying, — I shall be miserable by anticipation. Oh! 
it cannot be ; — and how could this girl know beforehand what 
Fate may have decreed ?” 

“ Heed it not, my dearest Julia,” replied Douglass. “These 
women live upon the fears and hopes of the credulous ; and we 
have paid no very great compliment to our instructors in youth 
to have listened to the croakings of these hags. It is very ob- 
vious that it is only a shilling guess or a half-crown couplet, or 
they would know their own destiny, and avoid the gallows and 
the colonies a little oftener than they do.” 

“ It is very odd though, my dear Robert, how^ the strongest 
minds yield to a little superstition. Now, I would wager a 
trifle, that if your old woman told you something which corres- 
ponded with that the young one told me, although you would 
term it an odd coincidence of circumstances, yet you would 
feel rather uneasy that such odd coincidence did occur with such 
a precision.” 

“Do youremember what she told you, my dear Julia?” 

“Yes, that I do,” she replied; “and I wish I had never 
heard it.” 

“Well, then,” resumed Douglass, “we will compare notes 
when we get in the carriage. And after panting up the hill in 
silence and resuming their seats, Douglass wrote the gipsy’s 


THE GAMESTER. 


145 


verses in his pocket-book, in order to avoid the impending rnin 
directly he perceived the cloud gathering over him. 

Julia did the same ; and the" former confessed himself rather 
startled when he read the odd coincidence^' the younger 
brownie had thus foretold; it seeming a rule amongst these 
people, that you have prose for a shilling, and poetry for your 
half-crown. 

“ Tho’ the days of your youth have with riches been crown’d, 
Believe not those riches for ever shall last ; 

For the Fates on your infant malignantly frown’d, 

And your evening of life is with sorrow o’ercast. 

Not a branch from your loins shall enliven your age ; 

Cold, cold is the grave in a far foreign shore ! 

Beware of this warning from Margery’s page, — 

You shall live to despise what you now most adore.” 

“ That last line has a clear reference to me,” said Douglass, 
“ and by way of blotting out the dark hint, I’ll kiss away the 
only tear I yet have seen on Julia’s glowing che6k. Come, my 
little timid dear,” he said as he took her clammy hand, “ think 
less of the future, and more of the present. Poor little Hough- 
ton has, I dare say, like most of us, misery enough in this world 
without gipsy’s nonsense to make it worse; and we are Chris- 
tians enough to bow to a decree we cannot avert, come when 
and how it will.” 

“ Do not, Douglass, I beseech you, speak in that fearful way ! 
You do not think the child will die?” 

“ Not a moment the sooner for the wisdom of Margery Cols- 
ton, be assured,” he replied. “I spoke in the manner I did 
because I saw you droop over the doggrel of young Margery, 
These women think it right to give you something for your 
money ; and so for a crown, like many a prince, we have lost 
happiness.” 

“ Only for a moment, my dear Robert. But it is an odd 
coincidence,” she added with a smile. 

Now, it is an odd thing how men seek to find out misery : 
and what is still more strange is this, — that those very people 
who by their religion are predestinarians are always the most 
superstitious ; and yet when it comes to a business of the scime- 
ter or the bow-string, they quietly place it all to the account of 
Takdeer (destiny), and walk with as much composure to their 
death as a skilful surgeon does to an operation. We are all of 
us a pack of contradictions tied up by the thread of existence ; 

VOL. I. 13 


146 


WALSINGHAM, 


and as fast as one contradiction is confuted by Death, up jumps 
a young controversy, which soon supplies the place of the con- 
tradiction : and so we go on wrangling and fighting, making 
war and signing peace, until the old undertaker and the sexton 
finish the business which the doctor has left unfinished, and 
“ Good night, Marmion,” 

When a man runs his eye over history, he sees in every age, 
in every clime, just the same ambition, just the same idea of 
politics and policy, which the author of “ Devereux” thus de- 
fines : “ The first is wisdom for one’s country ; the second, wis- 
dom for one’s self.” The wheel of Time rolls on, generation 
succeeds generation as wave succeeds wave : the same stimulus 
still excites, the same butterfly propensities to flutter in the sun- 
shine of court favour ; the same readiness, and generally oftener 
done, to kneel to a king than bow the knee to a God. On the 
other side, chimney-sweeper succeeds chimney-sweeper; the 
beggar of one generation leaves the crossing and the broom to 
the next generation ; the seven small children of misery, who 
have been let out at sixpence a day to a would-be mother of a 
large family, with the privilege of being pinched to excite com- 
passion, for an extra sixpence a w’eek, grow up, become mo- 
thers, let out their offspring for the same laudable purpose ; and 
professions, like religion, depend upon the custom of the parents. 
The son of a play-actor is generally a Thespian ranter ; the 
daughters of the profligate are generally found in the streets 
pursuing the parental example ; the clerk of the Treasury gets 
his son in the same office ; the soldier places his first-born in 
the army ; the sailor cradles his infant in a ship ; and the law- 
yer feels a glow of satisfaction when he hears his son arguing 
in a bad cause. 

Such, then, is life: the wisest is the man who turns it most 
to his own comfort without being dependant on another. We 
are like the travelling carriage, — sometimes going merrily along 
the road, sometimes suddenly upset when least expected, some- 
times toiling up a hill and sometimes dashing down it. 

Douglass wished he had kept his philosophy a little more in 
view, and had guarded in his heart a little more cautiously the 
advice of old Houghton. He would not have left Dover the day 
after his arrival, to go over that miserable road of the Great Na- 
tion, which, like ambition, shows many an uneven step to be 
overcome before the traveller arrives at the wished-for goal. 


THE GAMESTER. 


147 


CHAPTER XV. 


“ Now,” thought Douglass as he looked round the splendid 
rooms at the Hotel des Princes in the Rue Richelieu, — “ Now 
am I in the very house where young Houghton first^took his 
wife when he first left his good old father never to see him 
again ; and I came here in order that his example might be a 
warning to me, that if I indulged in the same freaks, the conse- 
quences, the calamities whicli befell him might awe me into 
reason.” 

“ Well, Julia, my love, after all our fatigue over that abomi- 
nable road which the Great Nation — many blessings on their 
I fertile inventions — have constructed for the ruin of one’s car- 
riage and one’s temper, what think you of this Paris, so famed 
for its climate, its wits, and its gayety ?” 

“ Why, thank Heaven ! I cannot answer one of your ques- 
tions. Of the climate I am no judge, since we only arrived yes- 
terday ; of wit I cannot give an opinion ; and as for gayety, the 
only thing to make me laugh has been a monkey riding on a 
! poodle, dressed in the uniform of King Charles the Tenth’s 
! guard, and so like his keeper as to be taken for his son. But 

I if I were to Judge from first sight, I certainly should not think 

these dirty streets, these noisy vehicles — for they make more 
riot than wagons in England, and these eternal drums, at all 
likely to captivate me.” 

“ They profess to be a military nation, and therefore they 
I must have the outward symbols.” 

I “ As long, Robert, as they don’t dash their cymbals^ I care 
very little for their parade or their dress.” 

^ “You see, Julia, the air has infected you a little: you 
i never made a pun in England. When you have got all your do- 
mestic arrangements made, we will walk over the Louvre, the 
sight most worth seeing in this city, and which will be a 
monument of the taste and genius of Napoleon as long as Paris 
exists amongst the cities of the earth. But look to little Robert, 
for his life is in danger if you believe Margery’s prediction ; and 


148 


WALSINGHAM, 


that will have one good effect, it will make us more watchful 
over his safety and his health.” 

“ No mother,” said Julia, “requires the stimulus of a gipsy’s 
prophecy to guard her child in sickness or in health. Before I 
thought of the minor comforts of myself I had seen little Robert 
asleep in his grand bed, and had given every order likely to 
conduce to his comfort. That done, I do own that after my fa- 
tigues are forgotten, I shall have no objection to seeing the 
strange sights of this far-famed Paris, of dining at a restaura- 
teur’s, and of witnessing the antics of the dancers on the boards 
of their own theatre.” 

To the inclinations of his dear little wife, Douglass lent a 
ready ear. Time had not chilled his affection ; and he verily 
believed at that moment that the little Houghton — that link in 
the chain of human happiness — had bound him closer and closer 
to Julia. He loved her tenderly, dearly ; for she, whatever in 
her gay moments she might have said, looked at him as her 
husband, her protector, her friend. To her wish, then, in behalf 
of sight-seeing, Douglass speedily agreed, and they commenced 
their operations both far and near. Versailles, that work of royal 
imagination, — St. Cloud, — in short, the whole of the royal pa- 
laces were visited ; they rummaged the guide-book for days of 
amusement, whilst the evenings were spent at the different thea- 
tres in raptures with this gay and lively people. In this- manner 
a month soon elapsed : still had Paris sufficient charms to at- 
tract them ; and, finding the place so agreeable, they resolved 
to winter there, and leave the Italian tour until the spring of 
next year. 

Oh, cursed resolution ! — doubly, trebly cursed ; — from that 
resolution sprang days of unhappiness, nights of wretQj[iedness. 
To that fatal resolution Douglass was indebted for all the mise- 
ry of his future situation — all his lost comforts — all, all that con- 
tributed to adorn the road of life, and make its traveller journey 
in ease and contentment. If ever predestination was the creed 
of a Mahomedan, that creed had fixed itself upon Douglass in 
looking back through the clouds of life which had darkened over 
his growing age : it seems as if the hand of Fate had guided 
him by the prophecy of the gipsy. Vain now are all specula- 
tions as to how the evil could have been avoided ; equally vain 
is it to recall all those little warnings which tapped so lightly at 
the door of caution, and warned him of the bitter fruit he was 
about to gather. 

They had now exhausted Paris, and had partially retired to 


THE GAMESTER. 


149 


the domestic felicity they enjoyed at Longdale, occasionally 
varying the scene by frequenting the opera, to which Julia had 
become very partial ; and at this time they had not increased 
their acquaintance not even by one name. They knew no one ; 
they were regarded as people of large fortune but reserved habits. 
Frequent attempts had been made by the eager solicitors of 
English society or French adventurers ; but all had been steadily 
refused. They were happy in themselves ; they wanted no 
external light to flare upon their social board, and they reso- 
lutely denied all intruders upon their acquaintance. It is now 
that we purpose making a few remarks upon the impoverished 
slate of the French nobility, and in the picture of this fallen 
grandeur show the blessings which arise from the law of pri- 
mogeniture. 

In this country, hundreds who are unhappily younger sons 
lift up their angry voices against the palpable injustice of one 
monopolising that which ought by the laws of affection to be 
equally divided amongst the whole. The reformers of this sup- 
posed abuse urge, as a reason, the envy, hatred, and malice 
with which one brother is likely to view the other, and thus oc- 
casion those family jars which, whilst in the higher sphere of 
life they disturb the domestic economy, may also breed consi- 
derable intestine commotions in the economy of the state. All 
the objections which the ingenuity of younger sons have sug- 
gested ’would be removed by asking them to reside in Paris and 
become acquainted with its society ; and it will require no let- 
ters of introduction to the noblemen by birth of that greajv. nation. 

How is it possible that the high character and station of the 
nobleman can be sustained after a large fortune has been subdi- 
vided between eight children, and again that subdivision to take 
place with eight more children ? What then (leaving out the 
widow’s allowance) will be the income of the head of the 
family ? 

Who, if imprudence should have impoverished a younger 
brother, who is to relieve him ?—where is the younger child to 
look for support ? — to be pushed forward to serve a state although 
possessing the best of talents : for we all know that many a 
man pines in want who has more abilities than half the chan- 
cellors of exchequer that ever managed the finance of a great 
country ; and many a poor obscure person would be better able 
to conduct the foreign diplomacy, and write half the communi- 
cations in the language of the different countries, than some 
foreign secretaries of state : but how is he to be known — how is 

13 » 


150 


WALSINGHAM, 


he to be pushed forward — how is he to find an opportunity of 
distinguishing himself? — his elder brother has no more influ- 
ence than himself ; it is not his own sphere which will-^exalt 
him — no, no, envy would guard against that. We do not see 
the shopkeepers of that most quiet parish of Marylebone sug- 
gesting one of their own class for their representative — not they. 
We are all remarkably fond of liberty ; but we take most espe- 
cial care that the liberty shall not exalt our equal over our- 
selves. 

But when the elder son succeeds to the honours and the for- 
tunes of his father — when the estate, instead of being rooted 
from the family, is still upheld as an asylum for all — when the 
power given by the aristocracy, of wealth gives also power in 
the state, — the younger sons educated at our first colleges, with 
minds cultivated, honour founded, have an advocate, and a strong 
one, in their elder brother; and if they follow the profession of 
the sword, or unravel, the mysteries of law or of religion, they 
do not work without a prospect of reward ; and they know that 
they have one to ask for them, and one who by the support he 
yields to the state has a right to ask, that they may receive the 
merited promotion. 

When a man, humble in birth, but brilliant in talents, thrusts 
himself by the energies of his mind a little above the level of his 
associates, who have we found the first to make him useful to 
the state but the nobleman of fortune ? It would be easy to men- 
tion many at this moment who owe their advancement entirely 
to the power of money in the hands of an elder son. The con- 
trast between France and England is thus drawn, because many 
believe that the picture of the former is caricatured. It is a na- 
tion brave and generous, but hilling fast into the republican upas 
which will blast all around it. 

Douglass thought, and the best of us will think, that he might 
without much hazard to himself venture into some of the sinks 
of iniquity so famous in Paris, and to which he was indebted 
for the fortune he possessed — thus causing, as he thought, at 
any rate, some good out of evil. No man had fortified himself 
more against the dangers of gaming — at least, if reflection is a 
safeguard — than he had done. Frequently in his dreams, when 
his fancy revisited the tomb of old Houghton, and as he ram- 
bled over the beautiful grounds of Longdale, or when imagina- 
tion recalled the scene in the pew, the cottage-gate, the gipsy, 
his own forrper abode, and his early propensities, even in his 
sleep he made vows to abjure that hated salon ; to conquer the 


THE GAMESTER. 


151 


most latent disposition (which once occupied his mind) of play ; 
to allow curiosity to go unsatisfied in regard to Frascati’s and the 
Palais Royal : and when he awoke, he prayed with a fervency 
unknown to him during his comparative poverty, that he might 
profit by the example of others, and not, like the generality of 
fools, pay for the experience of which others had written and 
published. 

They were in the Hotel des Princes, in the Rue Richelieu, 
as before mentioned, and they occupied those splendid apart- 
ments which a few years previous formed the residence of 
Prince T^eopold, now a king. 

It was one of those peculiar Parisian days when the mud 
makes very considerable advances towards the sides of the 
street as a fiacre splashes through the gutter in the centre, that 
he stood gaping out of his window, when the servant, who was 
one of the waiters, came to remove the breakfast apparatus. 
Julia had retired "to play with little Houghton ; and Douglass, 
being seized with a fit of blue devils, had recourse to conversa- 
tion with the servant to dissipate the gloom of his feelings. No- 
thing is so difficult in poetry or conversation as the beginning — 
without indeed it be the end ; and thus, merely for the sake of 
breaking the ice of reserve, he asked the waiter, who resided in 
the large house exactly in front of his window ; “ for,” said he, 
continuing, “ I see a vast number of people eternally going in 
and out of an evening, and I remark it is always lit up in a su- 
perior manner.” 

“ Cela, monsieur,” replied the waiter; c’est le Salon des 
Etrangers.” 

Douglass started as if struck by lightning. “ The Salon des 
Etrangers !” he ejaculated : “ I thought that place had been on 
the other side of the Boulevards : surely it did stand there ?” 

“ It did,” replied the gar9on ; “ but now it is held there. 
It is a kind of club where messieurs occasionally play,” con- 
tinued the talkative fellow, as he piled saucers, cups, plates, 
every thing, into one tray ; and spreading the fingl&rs of his 
left hand, and holding the arm in a bent position, balancing 
the utensils with the most unwavering exactness, he added as he 
retreated, “ and many of your countrymen know it.” 

“ May Satan blister his blabbing tongue I” thought Douglass, 
for he was already miserable : a curiosity uncontrollable crept 
over him to see the interior of a place so celebrated. He did 
not dare mention it to Julia : bred up as she had been in do- 
mestic seclusion, she had learned to couple the words gamesters 


152 


WALSINGHAM, 


and swindlers, and believed that one was inseparable from the 
other. “ The man,” she once said, “ who sits down to win 
from his friend cannot be actuated by honourable feelings, for no 
sooner will fortune favour him than he will exult over the loss 
of his friend ; this is ungenerous, it leads to recrimination — re- 
crimination leads to angry words — angry words create enemies ; 
one likes to conquer or ruin an enemy, and we are not over- 
scrupulous how we succeed as long as we do succeed, and thus 
revenge is not unfrequently the herald of dishonesty.” 

Douglass looked at that cursed house for more than half the 
day : he felt his curiosity overcoming his resolution ; he brought 
to the aid of the former “ example” — the determination not to 
play one farthing — the necessity of travellers seeing strange 
sights — the weakness it betrayed in shunning rather than facing 
an evil ; and he backed it all up by saying, “ Why, if I do as 
the sailors did, treat resolution to a glass, I see no reason why I 
should play ; or if I did, why I should lose.” 

On the other side, he saw Harry Houghton’s ghost pointing 
to his pistols — his victim under the lamp in Curzon-street — his 
miserable old father — and lastly, that tomb, and the last counsel 
concerning it, as plain as the writing on the wall at Belshazzar’s 
feast. The reader will here see the truth as applied to game- 
sters and women — “ If either consider or entertain the least 
parlance with curiosity, they are lost !” Douglass felt his cou- 
rage gradually yielding : he made a desperate, sortie to recover 
the fortune of the day ; the enemy beat him back, followed him 
over the drawbridge, overcame the last of his soldiers, and be- 
fore four o’clock he was conquered and had resolved to visit 
ihis place. This was the first step of his downfall ; and as Na- 
poleon told Talleyrand when that minister made the same re- 
mark when the emperor sent his army to Spain, “ Then take 
care I don’t kick you down the rest,” so might Douglass have 
heard the voice of triumphant curiosity threatening with him the 
same disgraceful exit. 

Now came the first falsehood to be told to Julia. At this 
Robert shuddered ; for he knew that 

“ Beauty, like supreme dominion. 

Is best supported by opinion 

and that directly the first breach of confidence was discovered, 
Julia’s good opinion of him would be shaken, and he from the 
knowledge of the error would lose his “ lawful and right su- 
premacy.” Many — ah ! many, will say, “ Why, with your eyes 


THE GAMESTER. 


153 


open, for the sake of an idle curiosity, run the risjv of being 
made supremely miserable by anxiety ? or why break down the 
barrier of domestic happiness which your honour — your affec- 
tion had upreared. The answer is with the poet: 

“Fate steals along with silent tread, 

Found often’st in what least we dread : 

An earthquake may be bid to spare 
The man who’s strangled by a hair.” 

It was his destiny : it was a part of the trial he was to experi- 
ence in life. 

It happened, however, that for the present he had no need to 
add falsehood to his folly. His child, now about six months 
oW, was seized by one of the many maladies to which children 
are subject; and Julia, whose maternal anxiety was excessive, 
slept in the room they had appropriated /or a nursery. Dou- 
glass therefore kept his own counsel; and when Julia had re- 
tired to rest, and had, with her usual sincerity of affection, im- 
planted on his lips a kiss as she murmured a tender “ Good 
night,” he took his hat, and, with a throbbing heart and. fearful 
foreboding, crossed the street and stood at the entrance of the 
salon. 

It happened that a great political excitement took place that 
day in Paris ; and as he arrived at the circular staircase, a knot 
of Englishmen were busy in discussing the probable termina- 
tion of these growing disturbances. Douglass joined in the 
conversation ; and after giving his opinion and listening to that 
of others— by wliich latter means more friends are made than 
by the former, — one of the number said, “ Well, we may as 
well discuss the matter in doors as out : let us go in.” Dou- 
glass, to whom the remark was made, observed that he was not 
a member : upon which one of the number, an apparently young 
man of perfect suavity of manners, and one who seemed to 
know more of France and Frenchmen than the talented author 
of “ France and the French,” volunteered his services in the 
way of an introduction ; and Douglass followed his footsteps, 
and obeying the injunctions painted on the right-hand side of 
the entrance — Essuyez him vospieds^ S. V. P.’’^ — he entered 
this superior pandemonium. 

In the antechamber was a table, round which were assem- 
bled five or six servants of the establishment. The kind/nmc? 
nodded and pointed to Douglass ; the servants took his cloak 
and hat ; and when the folding-doors were opened, he made his 


154 


WALSINGHAM, 


appearance in this gorgeous hell, quite astonished at its com- 
forts and its company. 

This room was well lighted up ; the various papers of Paris 
and of London were' strewed upon the table, — a large fire enli- 
vened the apartment, opposite to which was a sofa, on which 
reclined a venerable man decorated with a star, and who seemed 
far from the scene of dissipation and of ruin, if one might judge 
from the smile which played upon his lips. The room at one 
end was supported by two pillars, near which, and in the left- 
hand corner, was a tea-table : a servant attended, dressed in the 
livery of the establishment, to supply the different gentlemen. 
At the end opposite to the door was a window which, when 
opened, led to a terrace, terminating in a long garden lately much 
reduced, as the ground has been turned to a more profitable use 
by letting it out on a building-lease. The ceiling of this first 
room was exquisitely painted, and Venus rising from the Ocean 
formed the subject on which a celebrated artist had used his 
utmost talent. 

In the Salon, unlike any other gaming establishment, there 
are commissioners in the persons of French noblemen, who re- 
ceive the company ; and to the reigning king Douglass was now 
introduced. He was rather a short, thin, elderly-gentleman, 
who spoke English w'ell and fluently, but with a strong accent: 
his manner was kind and amiable; he was obliging, civil, cour- 
teous ; and, strange as it may appear to Englishmen, the situa- 
tion is not considered derogatory to the aristocracy of France, 
or the epaulettes of a general. 

There is a charm about that person’s manner, an elegance 
about his conversation, a superiority in his attainments, that his 
worst enemy could not traduce : he is, in fact, a thorough gen- 
tleman. Robert Douglass’s name was written down in a book, 
with his residence : he was informed that he was now a mem- 
ber of the Cercle ; and he was given to understand that he 
would shortly be invited to share the hospitality of the esta- 
blishment. 

The gentleman hinted to him the danger of gaming, for he 
was far above the villany of enticing the unwary to venture into 
the deep and dangerous whirlpool of play ; he warned him to 
avoid the lure rather than to court it; and he left him with the 
impression on his mind that he was a great deal loo good for his 
situation. 

It was whilst Douglass wandered into the various topics of 
the day, that he heard the first rattle of the dice, and saw those 


THE GAMESTER. 


155 


who had been idling their time over a newspaper drop the com- 
mon excitement to rush to that of a far greater, and of a far more 
ruinous nature. He was not slow to follow, and soon found 
himself by a round table in the centre of a circular room. Be- 
tween the many pillars which surrounded this apartment were 
settees, the backs resting against looking-glasses ; whilst the 
decorative part, being white and gold, gave a cheerful appear- 
ance, which otherwise would have been dimmed by the green 
shade which covered the suspended lamp over the table. But 
the wood fire alone — the crackling of the wood — the brightness 
of the blaze, contributed to enliven the dreary silence of ex- 
pectant success. 

On the mantelpiece was that common ornament a clock, the 
device of which was ill suited to the apartment; it was Cupid 
and Psyche in amorous dalliance, dawdling with Time ; and 
that clock might have told its gazejrs of hours misspent, of mo- 
ments of excitement ruinous to health, to comfort, to honour. 
Douglass looked at that monitor of life, and moralised over the 
scene before him : he regretted that the young could be enticed 
to forego the nobler ambition of man for the minor gratification 
of gain ; for, after all, gaming is but a desire of gain by the dis- 
tress of another : it is the purchase of anxiety at an enormous 
rate and ruinous price ; — it is the solace of the idle, the resort of 
the frivolous; — it is, in its first stage, the innocent harmless fly 
in the strong web of the many-eyed spider: it begins with a 
flutter, and it ends with death. 

Douglass passed to the next room. A long table ran from end 
to end : this was the rouge-et-noir table. Here he remarked the 
pale and the wan of countenance busily employed in endeavour- 
ing to thwart the decree or the whim of Fortune by marking 
with a pin on a card the result of each deal, as if calculation 
could overcome chance ! There, deal, after deal, would the half- 
ruined man mark with scrupulous care the winning colour; 
whilst ever and anon he counted his money, running the Napo- 
leons from hand to hand by threes or fives — then placing them 
in different heaps, in fantastic crosses, — for gamesters are al- 
ways superstitious ; then changing the seat, turning the chair 
round, and a thousand other imbecile peculiarities which are 
only to be seen when the mind is paralysed, and the weakness 
of intellect has given way to the uncertainty of hope. 

The living picture before him might have scared Douglass 
from the talons of these birds of avarice and of prey. He might 
have seen in the sunken eye^ — the premature age — the quivering 


156 


WALSINGHAM, 


lip — the angry glance— -the distorted countenance, — that if gam- 
ing was happiness, it varied its hues and shapes from those of 
pleasure and enjoyment. 

He returned half sick with disgust to the hazard-table, and 
looked long and long at the change of fortune. He saw the 
timid man, when the stream of the goddess flowed favourably, 
availing himself but cautiously of her goodness. She had too 
often deceived him ; but had he then doubled and trebled his 
stake, large would have been the profit. But no sooner had the 
slighted deity perceived the coldness of her votary, than the tide 
was turned, and the inexperienced youth, attempting to stem 
the stream of adversity, lost his all by daringly opposing it. 
Then came cursings and execrations, not loud, but deep ; — ^then 
came the involuntary motion of the hand — the ineflectual search 
for more — the hasty look as if to brave the eye it hardly dared 
to meet. Fearful — ^fearful sight ! too well remembered, although 
too slightly, was the impression made upon his heart. 

When Douglass looked at the clock, he found he had already 
wasted two hours : it was past one o’clock, and he thought of 
his home and his happiness. The gentleman who introduced 
him, and whose name was Walsingham, now joined him : he 
had been successful ; the glittering heap of gold, the numerous 
bank-notes, the counters of various shapes and. worth, he placed 
upon the mantel-piece, and he rubbed his hands with a pleasure 
almost incredible when he enumerated the gross gainings of 
about 17,000 francs, — an insignificant sum, and only rendered of 
greater value when won at play. 

Douglass remarked to him his astonishment at the splendour 
of the establishment, and the apparent order and fairness by 
which it was conducted. There was a keen glance — a search- 
ing look, as much as to express his doubt if Douglass were in 
jest or in earnest ; when, in rather an abrupt manner, he said, 

“ This, I fancy, is your first visit here: I recommend you to 
make it your last.” 

Douglass felt rather pleased than annoyed at the blunt famili- 
arity of his new acquaintance, who now, as he had won, looked 
not more than thirty : although his face was furrowed and his 
eye sunken, yet still the freshness of manhood was upon him, 
and neither age nor excitement had blanched his hair. 

“ Your recommendation, is good,” replied Douglass, “but ra- 
ther at variance with your practice.” 

“Yes,” said Walsingham rather quickly; “I understand 
you : — a kind of sign-post which points, but does not follow the 


THE GAMESTER. 


157 


way; a kind of pilot who bawls out * Yoqder is the beacon,’ 
and runs upon the hank'’^ 

Douglass smiled at the pun, and asked him “ why he conti- 
nued a course he recommended others not to steer.” 

“ Why,” replied Walsingham, “I was a happy man until I 
became a victim and got tied to a stake, and am now quietly an- 
ticipating my execution. I am the best man in the world to 
give advice, for I have profited by experience. But I give you 
this hint, — >that if you want to be asked to dinner here, you 
must dabble a little with a few golden fish : they are baits which 
are always taken, and^he fisherman not unfrequently hooked.” 

“ I think,” replied Douglass, “ that to see the whole lure that 
is offered to the gudgeons who are ultimately treated like the 
fish, only that it is a pocket exenteration instead of a human 
one, even I must break through my vow and play a little : but 
it is many years since I played the game, and must trust to their 
honour, for it seems conducted with great propriety.” 

“Oh yes,” replied Mr. Walsingham, “with a vast deal of 
propriety,^'' giving an extra force to the word. 

“ I mean to say,” continued Douglass, “ with a vast deal of 
fairness, — that is, no cheating is allowed.” 

“ Ah,” replied Walsingham ; “ that very much depends upon 
the stake that is down. It is quite w^onderful with what extra 
rapidity that pale-faced croupier sitting in state at the rouge-et- 
noir table counts when there are a few billets-de-banque upon 
the table. But, God knows, I would not imply any unfair- 
ness.” 

“ 01), certainly not,” responded Douglass ; “ only you think 
it would be just as well to count the cards yourself.” 

“ Just so ; merely as a precaution it is not bad policy to count 
money after your father,” continued Walsingham; “for when 
you have paid as much for your experience as I have, you will 
learn to estimate the honesty of human nature at precisely what 
it is worth. Does not the very decoration of this establishment 
convince you that much must be won to support it ? and if the 
game was perfectly even — that is, as regards its chances — and 
that fair play was always observed, do you think Fortune would 
always roll her wheel in one direction, making the visiters as a 
kind of cornucopia from the contents of which the proprietor 
and monopoliser of gaming is to be enriched ? I have intro- 
duced you here, and I am sorry for it, for you are just as likely 
to be ruined as any man I know. I see you possess curiosity : 
it may be a ‘ strong sign of a vigorous intellect,’ but I do not 

VOL. I. 14 


158 


WALSINGHAM, 


know a more dangerous associate either in the streets or houses 
of Paris.” 

“Well, then,” said Douglass, “I am resolved to see all I 
can of this pandemonium ; and by way of beginning, I will just 
try my luck at this hazard for a few Napoleons. I care not if I 
win, and it cannot hurt me if I lose ; so I wish you good night 
and a repetition of your good fortune. As for myself, I do not 
intend to play — only to dabble, as you call it ; for I am boy 
enough to wish my curiosity satisfied for more reasons than one.” 
And again repeating the “ Good night,” Douglass sat down at 
the table and was soon in the very whirlpool he had promised 
to shun. 


THE GAMESTER. 


159 


CHAPTER XVL 


Douglass awoke pale and fatigued : he had hardly been in 
bed four hours, and his slumbers were disturbed by awful 
dreams and uncomfortable apprehensions. Strange is the first 
feeling of the excitement in a gamester’s mind ; strange the 
overpowering weight which presses down reason, which para- 
lyses all exertion, which leaves but one wish, chills affection, 
and blights love. Douglass felt like a guilty criminal about to 
be placed at the bar when he heard his wife’s hand upon the 
door. She came laughing with joy that her child was better, 
she threw her arras round him and she kissed him with her 
usual fondness ; but she was not slow to imagine that the re- 
turn was not made with its usual affection. Women are quick 
at this discovery ; where men would never find the difference, 
the other sex are tremblingly alive to the slightest variation : 
with women, love is the very foundation of all thought, all de- 
sire ; with men, love is second to ambition, arid not capable of 
competition with gaming. 

“ My dearest Robert,” she began, “ you look ill to-day, as if 
you had not slept, and your air is distracted. Tell me, I pray, 
what has disturbed your quiet. And now you look,” she con- 
tinued, smiling, “ like one who has been guilty of a bad action 
and afraid to confess it.” 

“ I did not,” replied Douglass, “ sleep well last night, and I 
was annoyed about poor little Houghton, who, I thought, look- 
ed very ill indeed. The fact is, 1 reproached myself for not 
having sent for the doctor; for well I know that children, al- 
though sometimes mightily tenacious of life, at other times are 
extinguished by the breath which would blow out a candle.” 

“Oh, dearest!” replied that affectionate creature, “rest as- 
sured that I shall be the first to be alarmed for Houghton : I, 
liis mother and his nurse, must first experience the poor little 
creature’s want of appetite ; and the pain that it would occa- 
sion me would remind me of the cause, even if a mother’s eyes 
could be closed against her child’s appearance.” 


160 


WALSINGHAM, 


They sat down to breakfast; and again the vigilant attention 
of Julia startled Douglass. 

“ Why, Robert, you can neither eat nor talk to-day : — what 
is the matter with you ?” 

“ Nothing, my dear; only I do not feel much inclined to eat. 
I feel—” 

“ 111, Robert ? Surely those sheets could not have been 
damp? By-the-by, I thought I heard you moving during the 
night, — that is, about three this morning. Were you up then?” 

“ I do not remember,” said Douglass (and he felt the equivo- 
cation), “ getting out of bed at that hour.” 

“ You answer me strangely, my dear Robert. Surely you 
did not go out after I left you last night?” 

“ Certainly not,” replied Douglass; and he felt at the instant 
as if the chord which bound him in beautiful harmony to Julia 
snapped with a discordant sound, and was ruined for ever. 

“ Perhaps, after all,” said Julia, “ it is merely a French cold, 
or French diet, and I know you lords of creation cannot bear to 
be teased about your health. But you know, Robert,” and she 
placed her dear little hand upon his, — “ you know I am a pri- 
vileged person, and if I think proper I shall send for the doctor 
to feel your pulse. As I live,” said the dearest creature that 
ever breathed, “ it riots like one under a strong excitement : and 
yet you look calm and easy, although pale and fatigued. Why, 
Robert, your pulse is just what 1 should imagine from your de- 
scription to belong to a gamester or a drunkard !” 

That blow struck home; Douglass writhed as he felt the 
words penetrate to his heart ; a cold icy tremor shot through all 
his veins, and his lips blanched under the influence of the 
creeping venom ; nor could resolution or sudden effrontery 
course back the blood to the cheeks it had deserted — to the lips 
it had forsaken. Julia saw it — her quick eye perceived it ; but 
she was too young to discriminate between anger and guilt. 
Afraid that she had provoked him by the remark, she threw 
herself round his neck, and asking a million of pardons, em- 
braced him long and tenderly. She implored him to send for 
the doctor, she rubbed his forehead, she chafed his temples, she 
urged him to recline upon the sofa and to amuse himself by 
some trivial reading, whilst she would prepare some cold 
draught. 

“What!” murmured Douglass to himself; “of what use 
can a doctor be to me, without 1 administer to myself? Mac- 
beth’s physician could not cure me ; for in a mind diseased the 


THE GAMESTER, 


161 


patient must be his own physician, and much I fear the struggle 
is beyond my effort.” 

It is in vain to attempt a delineation of Douglass’s mind in 
order to show the overwhelming influence of gaming. He felt 
inclined, even with the remembrance of Harry vividly before 
him, to quarrel with her he best loved, the only woman he ever 
really loved, — he thought of boldly confessing, (confession, in- 
deed, to a woman !) of declaring his time his own, his money 
liis own, and his determination no longer to submit to a sur- 
veillance so disgustingly prying. Then came the shame of de- 
tection in the falsehood he had uttered when he declared he had 
not left the house, when his own servant could best bear witness 
against him. There again he felt cruelly degraded — men ser- 
vants chatter in the halls and in the kitchens ; women’s ears 
are quick, and tongues are noisy; if Julia should, her suspi- 
cions being excited, inquire and be convinced that he had not 
returned until three o’clock in the morning, who could say that 
jealousy would not overcome discretion ? Douglass knew no 
one in Paris, that she knew. The theatres, the operas, all 
places of amusement are closed at midnight ; then those whose 
daily avocations engender labour, sleep, or seek it ; the honest 
artificer has closed his shop, the gay bustle of the light has been 
succeeded by the dull quiet of the darkness, and only the 
drowsy debauchee, the tired prostitute, or the jaded patrol, dis- 
turb the streets ; one place still glares with light, still has vigi- 
lant inmates, — still re-echoes the curses of the unfortunate, the 
noise of the dice, the ringing of gold, and there — there was 
Douglass, and now he felt himself the coward who dared not 
own it, — the liar, the self-convicting liar, who had denied it. 

It is but one short step to cross the Rubicon — he had done it. 
Henceforth for him was the conscientious applause of a calm 
conscience ? — impossible ! He had degraded the mind he for- 
merly sought to elevate ; he thought himself despised — he felt 
he deserved it. Oh, how fervently did he wish for some Holiri 
to wring from his heart the black drop which envenomed the 
whole circulation ! what would he not have given to have re- 
called the last twenty-four hours of his miserable existence ! 
He struggled to overcome the feeling : he felt himself the more 
and more entangled in the mesh, and like the fool, afraid of 
retracing the step because his shadow was behind him, he 
rushed forward to sure darkness, wherein he should be di- 
vested of the troublesome companion. 

He lay down, and held a book in his hand ; it was “ St. 
14 * 


162 


WALSINGHAM, 


Leon.” He opened it at the very part where, by his im- 
prudence, his wife and family are ruined, — and how ? — by 
gaming! He shut his mind from the wholesome lesson; he 
felt too wise to need the advice : he turned towards the close of 
the volume, — he found St. Leon possessed of wealth, and he 
thought the philosopher’s stone was a pair of dice. His eyes 
ran over the words ; but they never were conveyed to his mind, 
and he felt much like some of those sanctified hypocrites who, 
whilst murmuring a prayer, are thinking of a ball or a bonnet ; 
or like the boy condemned to read a certain number of pages, 
and who, whilst traversing the print, is either playing at peg- 
top, or prisoner’s base. 

Julia had returned, and Douglass had mastered his feelings ; 
his temper, which had been ruffled in the morning, had now re- 
covered its partial smoothness, and he answered so well, and 
spoke so like himself, that she returned to the baby, and left 
him a consummate hypocrite. He had not long pondered over 
his own abasement, before his servant announced Mr. Walsing- 
ham ; and that intruding gentleman seemed to follow the air 
which conveyed his own name. Douglass welcomed him, but 
felt the necessity of at once making him a partner in his false- 
hood ; and no sooner had the servant closed the door, than he 
told him that he must present him as an old schoolfellow, and 
that he was on no account to mention where he had met him ; 
on the contrary, he was to have seen him yesterday entering 
the hotel, to have inquired his name, and to have, for the good 
feeling of early friendship, eagerly paid him the first visit. 

This is the sad effect of one falsehood, that it must be supported 
by a hundred— “that the memory must be true to its master, or the 
whole will be discovered ; — in short, the man who is guilty of 
this moral wrong at once strengthens the arms of his enemies, 
whilst he weakens his own. 

“ I hear,” said Walsingham, “that they used you roughly 
for your first imprudence last night, and that the bank, pre- 
viously losers, left off gainers from your tide of misfortune. I 
hope the amount, like a man’s fortune or a woman’s beauty, is 
rather exaggerated.” 

“I do not know,” replied Douglass, “what report may 
have circulated, but I lost sixty-five thousand francs. It is 
paying sharply for amusement and experience, and perhaps for 
an invitation !” 

“Right,” replied Walsingham; “here is one, which they 
asked me to bring to your hotel ; and as I shall be there, I shall 


THE GAMESTER. 


163 


be happ}^ to show you the lions : it really is worth seeing, and 
I recommend you to accept it. You see what is added in the 
postscript. “ Vous etes prie de renvoyer au plus tard Tavant- 
veille le billet d’invitation, en cas d’empechement.” 

“ I shall go,’’ replied Douglass : “but you must do me the 
favour to ask me to dinner with yow,” he said, putting the note 
into the fire ; “ for I have promised not to dine there, and I 
should not like to make an unquiet house for the gratification of 
my puerile curiosity. When my wife comes, do you ask me.” 

At this moment Julia entered the room, and was introduced 
to Walsingham as an old schoolfellow of her husband’s, who 
had paid that compliment to his appearance, that although they 
had separated some sixteen years, yet that time had used him 
so well, that he had retained the same face by which he had 
recognised him yesterday. 

Walsingham bowed gracefully, and, taking up the hint and 
the conversation, paid a handsome compliment to Julia, by 
adding, that those who were happy always looked young; in 
short, that the happiness of her countenance seemed reflected 
upon her husband. 

“Time must have used him well, Mr. Walsingham,” said 
Julia, “ to have so little altered the general character of his 
countenance, that you can distinguish the likeness after so many 
years absence. Pray what school were you at together ?” 

Walsingham seemed an adept at lying — he was ready to pawn 
his soul for a third person; he answered off-hand, “At Win- 
chester.” 

“ Why, Robert,” remarked Julia, “ I never heard you say 
that Winchester was one of your schools.” 

“ Yes, my dear, you remember,” he mentioned, “ that I was 
removed from Twyford, which is its preparatory school, when I 
was about seven years old. But, Mr. Walsingham,” continued 
Douglass, “ have you been long in Paris ?” 

“ Not very long, — that is, a year or so,” replied the quondam 
friend, apparently embarrassed. “But I know few, very few 
people here ; and as I have at last fallen upon one of my friends 
whom Time had separated from me, allow me to make amends 
for the old tyrant, and beg you to give me the pleasure of your 
company at dinner to-morrow.” 

Douglass looked at Julia ; she seemed to nod assent. He 
accepted the invitation; and Walsingham, after promising to call 
for him at a quarter to six, in order to conduct him to the cafe 
where he was to give his dinner, was about to depart, when 


164 


WALSINGHAM, 


Julia interposed, and said, “ My dear Robert, how nauch better 
would it be if Mr. Walsingham were to dine with us. I should 
then hear the old school-stories; and you, who look any thing 
but well, would be under my guardian care. Besides, I want to 
pay Mr. Walsingham some attention for his compliment to your 
youth.” 

“I really am highly flattered, madam,” replied Walsingham; 
“ but I have engaged four or five persons to dine with me, and I 
cannot put them oflT, and therefore the pleasure you propose 
must be deferred until another day. The change will be bene- 
ficial to your husband ; and jou may rely upon my only obliging 
him to taste one or two wines, and eat the best cookery at the 
Rocher.” 

“What a precious villain I am already!” said Douglass, 
musing to himself : “ by heavens ! I feel the folds of the snake 
getting closer and closer around me, and yet have neither spirit 
nor resolution to either fly or face the danger. Here I am 
floundering in lies, whilst, if I ordered the post-horses and went 
to Naples, I should rid myself of my conscience, my hell, and 
my new friend.” Thus did he muse, until he brought to his 
recollection the features of Walsingham. He was tall, well- 
looking, clever, quick, engaging ; there was an ease and ele- 
gance in his manner, and his natural behaviour was that best 
designated by “ simplicity being the highest effort of art.” His 
history he was resolved to fathom ; for, although not much past 
thirty in age, his eye was sunken, his cheeks were furrowed, 
he had a strong expression of care, and at times he was perfectly 
melancholy. But with this there was a quick, cunning look : 
he seemed always vigilant, lest he should be surprised ; and 
when hastily observed, his face flushed, and he generally turned 
away. In conversation he hardly ever looked his companion in 
the face ; and had not Douglass been doomed— fated, to become 
a victim, he might have read dishonesty on his very face. Now 
he was established in his house as his old school-fellow, he 
knew Julia would, to please him, pay him every attention; that 
thus he should admit a stranger into his confidence, and the 
unguarded heart of his wife would be liable to be assailed by 
this cold, heartless, crafty man. Douglass saw that Walsingham 
had some view in visiting him, and that lie had brought the 
letter merely as a pretext ; however he had strengthened his 
approaches — whatever his views might be, he was now going a 
fair road on which he might exercise his skill. Julia and 
Douglass dined at home, and for the first time since their 


THE GAMESTER. 


165 


marriage the latter began to feel dull after dinner ; their usual 
amusement, chess, had no charms for him, and he could not 
animate himself sufficiently to relate anecdotes as he sat at her 
feet, his head resting in her lap, as was his customary mode 
when she was inclined to kill an hour in knitting a purse, and 
believing she was usefully employed. 

Douglass escaped unscathed or unobserved. Julia suggested 
that Paris, gay as it was, might still be stupid, and she hinted 
the trip to Naples as more conducive to amusement than idling 
away the time in France. Douglass suspected that she had 
discovered his falsehood, and he hardly dared to look her in the 
face ; but he answered that the winter had now begun, that she 
was too delicate to undertake so long a journey, and that Hough- 
ton, indisposed already, and suffering from cold, could not 
safely be removed from their present residence ; but that he was 
ready to acquiesce in any arrangements she might wish to 
make, for that all places were the same to him as long as Julia 
was there. 

She patted his head, and they passed the evening after that 
remark in a more social style ; so easy is it to lead the heart of 
an affectionate woman even by the simplest words! 

At a quarter to six the following day Walsingham called. 
Julia was in the salon, for Douglass had not quite completed his 
toilet, and his friend availed himself of the few minutes to pour 
in a tide of compliments in regard to Douglass : he spoke of 
him as one who promised to make a figure in after life from his 
abilities at school, and really played the part so well that no 
woman alive could have penetrated the false veil he wore. The 
child was in the room ; of course he asked to see it, and as he 
took it in his arm and patted the little child’s fat rosy cheek, he 
said, in a careless manner, “ Well, my little cherub, and so like 
your mamma, too ! What’s your little name, dear ?” 

The child was too young to speak ; but Julia, with a mother’s 
fondness, answered, “ Say Houghton, little dear !” She looked 
up, and Walsingham’s face w^as as white as snow ; she snatched 
the infant from liis hands, for it was crying, returned it to the 
nurse, and then instantly turned her attention to her guest and 
offered him some wine : Walsingham said it was nothing but a 
spasm to which he had been much subject since his arrival in 
France, and which he attributed to the light wines. At this 
moment Douglass entered, and being quite prepared and the time 
nearly expired, they left the room, Douglass promising to be 
back early. This was the first time that he had dined out without 


166 


WALSINGHAM, 


his wife since their marriage, and he felt at every step that he 
was preparing the way to a little connubial coolness. 

It was dark and itrained; the salon was immediately opposite, 
and they crossed without an idea that Julia’s window overlooked 
the entrance, and that a lamp, dim, it is true, like all the lamps 
at Paris, but yet sufficient to show the forms if not the faces of 
those who passed under it, illumined the entrance. Julia saw 
them: she, with all the affection of a loving woman, had waited 
to see the carriage pass, but she heard no roll of wheels ; she 
knew her husband took no umbrella — the wind was high, and 
the'' rain pattered against the windows — she saw, and no doubt 
she recognised them, as they passed under the arch which leads 
through the court to the door. 

They were just in time; the company had assembled — the 
receiving-room was full. When the doors opened and dinner 
was announced, the little count, leading the brother of a cele- 
brated minister to a foreign court through the hazard, the rouge- 
et-noir rooms, to the dinner apartment, was followed by the rest 
in rather a rush than a deliberate movement : each man seemed 
anxious to. arrive as soon as possible, not so much with the idea 
of losing a mouthful, as of procuring a place free from the 
draughts of air which forced themselves through the heated 
room whenever the door was opened. Douglass was much 
struck with the elegance of the table: along plateau, richly 
ornamented, ran nearly the whole length ; the room was well 
lighted, and the candelabra were in the best taste. A profusion 
of wine was on the table, and he had the curiosity to remark 
that only twenty-eight people sat down to dinner, and that there 
were no less than fourteen bottles of Champagne, besides 
common wines, on the table. The Sherry and Madeira were 
handed round. 

On one side of him sat Walsingham; on the other was a 
middle-sized man of about fifty, but with a quickness of eye 
which became youth more than sobered manhood : but of the 
other guests he could not but remark that the haggard counte- 
nances bespoke the victims from whose pockets all this glare 
and gold was supported. There is something in the counte- 
nance of an Englishman which any observer would recognise at 
a glance : they have neither the round, fat, solemn face of the 
German, the sharp monkey cut of the French, the dark olive 
hue of the Spaniard, the heavy gaze of the Swede, the down- 
ward glance of the Russian, the small eyes of the Tartar, nor 
the excellent chisel of the Italian ; but they have faces cut be- 
tween the German and the Danish, being nearer the latter than 


THE GAMESTER. 


167 


any. The half bald-headed companion on Douglass’s right 
broke down the barrier of English reserve, and thus began: 

“I am afraid the weather” (an Englishman must begin with 
that) “ has turned to a determined rain, and Paris will be as 
nice a sheet of mud as a man need paddle through.” 

“It is rather a bad night,” replied Douglass, “and seems 
much inclined to continue.” 

“ Le vermicelle dTtalie an blanc de veau,” said one of the 
waiters, offering soup. 

Douglass look it; whilst another following, offTered Walsing- 
ham “ la Chantilly aux croutons.” 

“ This,” said Douglass to his new acquaintance, “ is excel- 
lent : one reads of magnificent entertainments, but I never anti- 
cipated seeing any thing half so splendid as this. Surely the 
expenses of this establishment must be prodigious ; for these 
dinners, I believe, lake place twice a week.” 

“La culotte de boeuf k I’allemande,” Douglass refused. “La 
Iruite de lac, sauce genevoise,” he accepted. 

“Quite right,” replied the stranger; “and it comes out of 
young gentlemen’s pockets like yours. I wonder who did you 
so bad a service as to introduce you here ? Take my advice and 
don’t come here again : if you do, these croupiers will take the 
starch out of you, I promise you.” 

“ I must play for them to use me so badly,” replied Don- 
glass ; “ and that is not my present intention.” 

“ I fancy,” continued the stranger, “ you would have been 
none the poorer if you had thought of that two nights ago.” 

“ Les dindonneaiix a la Godard,” Douglass could not refuse ; 
whilst his companion amused himself with playing a little with 
some “jambon glace aux epinards.” 

Douglass could not help smiling at the good-natured manner 
his new friend was pleased to hint at his ruin, and little did he 
dream at that moment how near he was to perdition : he was 
fairly in the whirlpool, but in the intoxication of the twirl he 
did not feel himself sinking. 

“ Are you aware of the expense of this establishment ?” he 
resumed ; “ for I cannot imagine how it can be supported.” 

Indeed !” replied the bald-headed friend. “ Then you may 
fancy how well it does answer when I tell you that the company 
to whom this vagabond infamous establishment belongs pay the 
first of every month as a tax- to the city of Paris twenty thou- 
sand pounds sterling, no less a sum than six millions of francs 
annually : then comes the salaries of the diflferent commissioners ; 
— that, for instance, of the little man is ” 


168 


WALSINGHAM, 


“ Les pelits vol-au-vents aux huitres ?” — No. 

“ La timbale de nouilles a la mongla.” — Oui. 

“ — Twenty thousand francs. Sixteen thousand is paid to 
that tall handsome man opposite to him ; the same to that little 
fat gentleman. Thirty-six francs is paid every night to each of 
the croupiers, with a handsome remuneration at Christmas if 
all goes well. Do you understand ?” he continued as he touched 
Douglass with his sharp elbow ; “ if all goes well. Then the 
rent of the house is about forty-five thousand francs a year. — 
Look at these domestics — half of them are ready to lend you a 
thousand francs, although you are, you suppose, a stranger. — 
Then, these dinners, the papers, reviews, fires, lights, suppers. 
Add up all that, my young gentleman, if you can, without a 
slate ; and then fancy what chance you can have of winning, 
when the odds must be so much against you, or how could this 
gaudy establishment exist?” 

“ Le chaud froid de perdreaux a la gelee ?” — Douglass nod- 
ded a dissent. 

“ La noix de veau piquee, puree de celeri.” — No. 

“ Is all that sum,” asked Douglass, “ expended on this esta- 
blishment alone ?” 

“Oh, no,” interrupted Walsingham ; “they have a dozen 
others : the devil is not quite so black as he is painted.” 

“ There are four or five other licensed plunder abodes,” con- 
tinued the stranger; “and in those haunts of iniquity, as well 
as here, every man is watched who enters : not Cerberus him- 
self with his triple-head watching the other hell, or Argus with 
his hundred eyes, can surpass in vigilance these attendants. By 
heavens ! I have often thought that they had eight eyes, like 
spiders.” 

“ Les poulets a la reine a I’ivoire.” — Douglass shrugged his 
shoulders. 

“ Les filets de volaille aux trulTes.” 

“ Try that,” said the stranger, “ and let us have some Cham- 
pagne ; you will find that and water the best beverage, for it 
has not the acidity of the ‘ vin ordinaire,’ and robs the wine of 
some of its dangerous strength : to drink much here, is to heat 
a furnace to burn your own fingers.” 

“I do not observe,” continued Douglass, “ that we are watch- 
ed : who are the spies ?” 

“ You will find that better displayed next door at Frascati’s,” 
said the elderly stranger. “ This hint will suffice : as you 
enter, you will leave your hat and cloak at the door ; — now, 
although hundreds pass in and out of the rooms, yet you will 


THE GAMESTER. 


' 169 

find that although you pass through in a moment and remain an 
hour, yet the waiters in attendance will give you your own 
cloak and hat from the hundreds which are hanging around 
them : like George the Fourth, they never speak to a man whom 
they do not remember. But take my advice, don’t play.” 

“ But,” answered Dougkass, “ I intend to play upon a systemJ'^ 

“They say,” returned the new friend with much sharpness, 
— “ they say in common life, a man is never ruined until he is 
married ; and here a. man is never quite lost until he has dis- 
covered a system. As Adam says to Orlando, ‘ this house is but 
a butchery ; avoid it, fear it, do hot enter it.’ ” 

“ Then why do you come here yourself, sir, if you enact the 
scarecrow to others ?” 

“ Le filet de boeuf a la broche, sauce madere.” — “ Oui.” 
Walsingham took “ les cotelettes de mouton a la jardiniere,” a 
dish he much recommended, for he ate gloriously and drank 
amazingly. 

“To continue my observations upon human nature,” he re- 
plied, “ there is no field for it like a den of gamesters. ^ Your 
lover is but cold in feeling io your gamester — your hero in war 
would shrink from the cool desperation yon pale haggard fellow 
would commit. The words of the satirist fall divested of their 
venom upon ears accustomed to the dice-box; and the sparkles 
of wit or tlie glance of beauty are ineffectual upon either the 
head or heart of a determined player. To him the voice of 
reason is unavailing, the brilliancy of beauty has no effect : his 
heart is hardened by this worst of all excitements, and the voice 
of humanity calls in vain on the skeleton of human nature.” 

“ I feel very much obliged to you,” said Walsingham, with a 
slight colour on his cheek, “ for the amiable picture you have 
chosen to draw of people who frequent this house.” 

“ Les filets de sols, a la horly, sauce tomate.” Douglass was 
satiated. The following waiter offered ‘Mes cnisses de volaille 
a la bellevLie ;” but he was hors de combat ; although another 
and another came, one ofTering “la chartreuse de langues de 
mouton,” and the other, “ les. perches de Seine a la waterfich 
when the first course was removed, and the second brought. 

“If the cap fits, Walsingham,” replied the stranger, you can 
wear it. Perhaps the dealli of Rockingham would bear out my 
statement, and I fancy you know all about him. I never saw 
so dreadful a finish in my life ; and it is really horrible to ima- 
gine the misery he occasioned to his father.” 

“ He changed his name before he died,” said W"alsingham ; 
“ and that saved the old gentleman the disgrace he would other- 
VOL. I, 15 


l70 


WALSINGHAM, 


wise have experienced. For myself, I don’t shoot until I am 
sure of the gallows or starvation.” 

“ And you will change your name again^ I suppose, before 
that accords with your feelings.” 

“ Les poulets au cresson” — “ Les perdreaux rouges bardes ?” 
asked the nimble waiters. 

Douglass now felt himself upon tender ground concerning 
Harry Houghton; and from old Houghton’s story, he imagined 
that his elderly friend and Walsingham must have been tlie two 
persons present at the suicide’s last carouse^ He thought it 
most prudent not to know any thing about the matter, although 
he remarked the crimson which covered Walsingham’s face as 
the words “ change your name again^^ were uttered, and his re- 
markably inquisitive look towards Douglass when the suicide’s 
fate was mentioned : he tiierefore changed the conversation by 
asking “ if no one gained who played here.” 

“ Oh, yes I” replied the elderly gentleman ; “ they gain days 
of uneasiness, and nights of sleepless anxiety, but no money. I 
hope you will lose at first — that may deaden your system ; but 
if you gain I do not know any man more likely to be ruined 
than yourself. Take the advice of one who has seen in this 
place the affluent become beggars — the happy miserable : do not 
attempt to launch into a vortex which must destroy you. When 
you, like me, have had the sway of thousands — when age, and 
distress, and misfortune have inflicted upon you half the mise- 
ries they have showered upon my poor old bald pate, — for 1 am 
a grandfather, young as I n;ay appear, — then you may be trust- 
ed to look upon these heaps of gold — to pity those who sigh to 
possess them, and despise those,” and he looked at Walsing- 
ham, “ who obtain them unjustly. Now take wdiat wine you 
require, for the custom here is not to wait long after dinner, and 
they only hand round claret once or twiceV’ 

“ Then before we go, my dear sir, may I ask,” said Dou- 
glass, “ who is that gentleman on the right of the count ?” 

“That is,” he replied, “ the Duke de T , brother of the 

man who has sworn allegiance to sixteen different governments, 
— a man of wonderful appetite, but the kindest and most amia- 
ble man alive. He has never altered the fashion of his dress 
for the last half-centnry : he is a man held in general estimation, 
wears a pigtail, eats much, plays little, is always courteous, and 
ever obliging. Now you knovv all about /u*m.” 

“ Now,” continued Douglass, “ who is that little hard-fea- 
tured man next to the duke, and who wears that common deco- 
ration of the legion of honour ?” 


THE GAMESTER. 


171 


“ That,” replied the cicerone, “ is an admiral of great reputa- 
tion and little reward : he has circumnavigated the globe, and 
[ias adorned science by the depth of his knowledge and the per- 
severance of his inquiries : he is familiar with all societies, but 
he was never in a more motley group than the present.” 

“ W^ell, one more, then, a glass of claret, and I have done,” 
said Douglass. “ Who is that remarkably handsome man with 
mustachios, who looks like Apollo amongst the Laplanders ? I 
do not think I ever saw such a specimen of creation in my life, 
saving that he savours of sadness and is tinged with dejection ?” 

“He is an Englishman,” was the reply; “and far better 
would it be for him to let the light of his countenance fall upon 
woman’s eyes, than to lose their lustre at the hazard-table. He 
was much handsonrjer a week ago ; but latterly he has been 
losing that which he can ill afford, and borrowing what he can 
never repay, — without, indeed, some Venus descends, like Ju- 
piter, Jn a shower of gold as liis wife.” 

“ J'he Danae being, I presume,” answered Walsingham, “a 
hazard.^' 

“Just so; but don’t pun — it’s worse than gaming. — Now 
look at that gentlemanly personage with the air of a soldier and 
a face of defiance. He is just as great a goose as yourself ; — 
don’t start he had a system, he lost 60,000/. in two months ; 
lie had a large fortune, and now two hundred a year would be 
high bidding for all that is left.” 

“ Ah !” answered Douglass, “ he never played upon my sys- 
tem” ' 

“ Play upon your fiddlestick !” grunted the old gentleman. 
“ Do you think you are going to discover a system to beat a 
certainty ? — do you suppose all these gray-headed sinners have 
not pondered over every chance, and made every calculation, 
and yet find the pull of the table overcome them all ? The dou- 
bling system is a fallacy when the stakes are limited ; the pull 
in favour of the bank is a certainty.” 

“ What may it be in proportion to the relative games?” in- 
quired Douglass. 

“ At hazard,” he replied, “ it is about one and three quarters 
per cent, against the players ; at rouge-et-noir, variable between 
four and seven per cent. ; at roulette, seventeen per cent, or* 
rather more ; and at creps with the three dice, it is not one jot 
less than thirty per cent. But come into the coffee-room, and I 
will give you a few hints and endeavour to get you out of this 
cursed hell without being much hurt.” 


172 


WALSINGHAM, 


CHAPTER XVII. 


Servants attended and poured out the “ sober berry juice’’ 
from an urn ; after which, those who relished liqueurs went to 
another table and had their choice of any they might please to 
name. The whole establishment was well conducted; and if 
they plundered you, they plundered you very genteelly. All 
ranks of society were to be found in this regiment of rifles, ^m\ 
it would have been fastidiousness indeed to have complained of 
the spread ; the dinner was always as good as that from curio- 
sity mentioned — of course only having given the principal m- 
trees, for there was a profusion of sweets and a splendid dessert. 

The play begins early on those nights when dinners are 
given; and Douglass soon found Walsingham much inclined to 
keep him in sight. He seemed by no means pleased with the 
new acquaintance, and he watched him rather too closely to 
please Douglass. I’wice Walsingham asked him if he intended 
to play ; but as he was more attached to his new friend, and he 
liked not the allusion to Rockingham and the change of name, 
he wished to glean some more intelligence both concerning the 
establishment, and of Walsingham, before he began upon his 
system. And this was done not without a great sacrifice on the 
part of Douglass ; he felt eagerly anxious to play, but the word 
ruin ! — ruin ! — ruin 1 had been so often repeated by the elderly 
gentleman, that he took it as a second edition of the gipsy’s 
prophecy. 

“ You seem, sir,” said Douglass to his dinner friend, “ to be 
acquainted with .every man in the room ; surely you must have 
been many years a resident in Paris, for I never remember to 
have heard any Englishman, with the exception of the eldest 
son of a certain marquis, who spoke so fluently or so elegantly 
as yourself.” He bowed and answered, 

“ I have had my chances and changes in this mortal life ; and 
if I were to tell you my history, you wmuld not wonder at my 
acquaintance with the language : suffice it to say, that I come 
here to get rid of myself. I am under no apprehension as to 


THE GAMESTER. 


173 


losing my money, — that’s all gone already. I never lost it here, 
or next door, — I never gamed : there are many modes of being 
mined without gaming, but none so short and s6 sure. Do you 
see that old broken-down man so busily employed marking a 
card and not playing ? He is an Englishman of high rank in the 
army, — he was a man of large fortune, and is one of the many 
victimised here. He was reduced to the most abject poverty, 
for many weeks became a beggar to the very men who had plun- 
dered him : they rejected his petition, until some others of our 
countrymen interfered, and they now allow him five francs a 
day^ which is all he has to subsist upon ; and yet such is the 
infatuation of this terrible vice, that you see him there, decrepit 
with age and misfortune, hovering round the table at which he 
is forbid to play, and marking every time the different colours 
win, with as much eagerness as if thousands depended upon the 
card. But I will take you to Frascati’s by-and-by ; and there 
I can show yo-u one or two more who lower over the paradise 
of their imagination, the flimsy cloud of their own misfortunes. 
— That fine-looking man yonder is one of Napoleon’s best gene- 
rals ; he is just returned from Portugal ; he has a system, and 
he is half ruined. See how he rubs the gold between his fingers, 
as if loath to part with his old friend, knowing he never will see 
it again ! Observe how the manliness of his features is disturbed, 
and fancy what he suffers by playing.” 

“Not so much as I do,” replied Douglass, “ from shunning it.” 

At this moment Walsingham went near the table to speak to 
some one, and Douglass said, “ Who is that man who brought 
me here ?” 

Before, however, the stranger could utter more than “ Avoid 
him !” he was back at their side, and he never left Douglass for 
one moment. About midnight he retired to his hotel a loser of 
about thirty thousand francs : it was between the conversation 
and the loss that Douglass visited Frascati’s. 

This sink of iniquity has often been described, and the de- 
scription here shall be brief. The victims enter an antecham- 
ber in which are some four or five servants, all ready to divest 
them of either hat or cloak ; and it is during this second of time 
that the person is so well watched by these active Cerberuses, 
that no one enters who is not known, and no one departs who 
is not marked. In the first room is roulette, — a game admira- 
bly adapted for the despairing gambler, as he replenishes his 
purse, if Fortune favours him, at one coup; in the next room is 
rouge-et-noir; and in a third is creps, — a species of hazard 

15 * 


174 


WALSINGHAM, 


played with three dice, the odds being immense against the 
player. But, as if the excitement of play was not sufficient to 
lure the eager youngster, women of a certain — or rather, uncer- 
tain description are admitted : but seldom does the face of beauty 
shed a momentary glare over this wretched institution ; those 
who have the entree are neither fascinating enough to cause the 
unwary to play, or the wary to love. In such a place, the 
charms must be great to excite attention ; for the eyes of many 
are on the women to see that they endeavour to lure a victim, 
not to their arms, but to the gripe of the croupier. 

The little ivory ball of roulette performs its various gyrations 
in the cylinder, the croupiers calling “ Faites le jeux, — 9a va, 
^a va,” until the last quick eye of the regulator, perceiving that 
the ball is about to touch one of the little brass nobs, calls out, 
“Rien va plus I” in hops the little ball into a nook, the number 
of which, whether odd or even, its colour, &c. being declared 
aloud, the winner, if such there be, is paid his apparently exor- 
bitant proportions, and the long rakes soon transfer the money 
of tlie loser to the grasp of the croupier. 

The women surround this table, and venture to predict the 
number likely to win ; enticing the man who perhaps is more 
captivated by the eyes of the seducer than the excitement of the 
game, to venture a little, and then a little more, until at last he 
becomes night after night a constant attendant, when the tardy 
remittances to Lafitte warn him of the necessity of return, and 
that necessity saves him from actual ruin. 

At this hell Douglass never felt inclined to gamble ; the room 
was too crowded, and the constant interruption of the women, 
stretching their bare arms to snatch the gained five francs, ra- 
ther disturbed calculation than excited precipitation. 

Could he have been reclaimed, here was the place. He 
heard several who had lingered near this fatal table giving vent 
to their feelings, and describing their loss in the usual off-hand 
manner : “ Done brown!” said one; — “ Cleaned out!” said an- 
other; — “ Not a cowry remaining !” said a third ; — “I’m off!” 
said a fourth. But amidst all the complaining some jokes 
escaped. One old Frenchman, who had been busily marking a 
card, at last screwed up his resolution to a proper pitch, and 
having said, “Now it is sure — now I must win 1” he poked 
down the remaining money standing before him : his certainty 
was fallacious, — he lost; and immediately he rose and sacre'd 
most violently, declaring himself the most unfortunate man in 


THE GAMESTER. 


175 


the whole world ; and running his head against the manlelpiece> 
he began to batter his brains. 

An Irishman who watched this unusual conduct at nrst said 
that the man was blinded by misfortune; but an Englishman, 
who corrected him, declared the man was not blind, but in the 
agony of acknowledged ruin. “Then, by Jasus !” replied the 
first, “ he’s afraid to look up on his ruin, and he wants to get a 
wall eye 

“ ril just try my luck for a few notes,” said a tall handsome 
young man, whom Douglas recognised as the one pointed out to 
him at the Salon: he placed a five hundred franc note on the 
red. 

“Faites le jeu!— Le jeu est fait!” continued the ever-active 
croupier. Away went the cards. “ Trois,” said the little man ; 
again a second row of cards, and “ Cinq” was the result. 
“Rouge perd et la couleur!” and away went the note. 

“ This is the wrong side,” said the Englishman ; and he 
placed a billet of one thousand francs on the black. 

Again the little man murmured, “Faites le jeu! — Le jeu est 
fait!” aud dealing the first row, said “Sept;” then came the 
second, “Quatre.” “Rouge gagne, couleur perd!” and the one 
thousand note followed that of the five hundred. 

“Sharp work!” said he. 

“I think so,” replied Douglass; and having wasted half an 
hour, during which time the company had changed once or 
twice, he went to the antechamber, and received his own hat, 
although there must have been two hundred people at least in 
the room. Douglass was quite satisfied that the old gentleman 
had not deceived him, and that every man who entered into that 
house was a marked man. He then returned to the Salon. 

Is there such a thing as fate? if so, Douglass might have been 
happy. And why should he deny the creed? does not the Mus- 
sulman who places his neck in the bowstring believe in it, and 
dies happy ? When the bastinado is applied, does not the be- 
lief in the preordination fortify him against the pain? when his 
house is burnt, his harem violated, his disgrace certain, does he 
: not quietly smoke his chibouk, and as he mutters the word 
“ Takdeer” (destiny), bows with submission, to what he be- 
I lieves unavoidable ? 

It is thus the foolish would reconcile themselves to their folly 
; under the umbrella of predestination ; and we scarcely ever met 
\ a gamester who was not tinctured with this belief. But if we 
i are responsible agents, fearful is the catalogue of crime against 


176 


AVALSINGHAM, 


the man who impoverishes his wife and family; robs, or is sure 
to wish so to do; and after wasting life with scarcely one aton- 
ing virtue, finishes his career by suicide. 

Douglass had this portrait before him. He knew the results 
of gaming; and yet, strange to say, he fell. He would not 
avoid it, even if he could. This is written to make others shud- 
der — to scare the greedy speculators from a place where ruin 
sits on sofas, and wretchedness is reflected in the mirror. And 
now to return home with a lie in his mouth, and smelling of a 
gaming-house ! 

The next morning Douglass arose pale and feverish. It was 
necessary to write to Verity in order that he might sell out 
some stock to replace the money lost. And here again he 
turned every idea into one of deception. He hardly knew what 
course to pursue. At last it occurred to him to say that he had 
acceded to the wish of his wife in purchasing some French fur- 
niture, some Sevres porcelain, and so forth, for Longdale, and 
that he hoped her fit of extravagance was now at an end. He 
begged him to place the money as quickly as possible in the 
hands of his London banker, as he was anxious to continue his 
tour into Italy, more especially as he did not think the air of 
Paris agreed with his wife. 

Depend upon it, there is nothing like a lie with a circum- 
stance attached to it; you are sure to deceive even your worst 
enemy. Douglass had despatched this letter before breakfast; 
and when he saw Julia enter witli a downcast dejected look, he 
felt as if he had occasioned the change. “ My child ! my 
child !” he began, as if feeling for the infant, not one thought of 
whom had troubled his frenzy, “is he worse, Julia? — is poor 
dear little Houghton worse 1” 

She took his hand, and kissed his cheek ; her eyes were 
suflfused with tears; and when she said, “ Thank God, the baby 
is belter I” she seemed to hint that Douglass betrayed symptoms 
of illness. 

“You are ill, Robert,” she continued: the eye of aflection 
can soon discover sickness in the person of a husband. “ What 
time last night — ” and, as if afraid to continue, she stopped. 

“ No, my dear,” he replied, “ not particularly. I have, I think, 
caught a little cold, which I hope will leave me before the day 
is over — But how did the child sleep ? — Why, you look pale 
and haggard.” 

“I did not sleep at all last night. I waited to hear you re- 
turn, and — ” 


THE GAMESTER. 


177 


“ Why, Julia, my dear ! what can ail you ! why this hasty 
check ? you seem as if afraid to speak ; what has become of 
your usual curiosity? would you not like to hear of Walsing- 
ham’s dinner ?” 

“ No !” she replied, with unusual energy : “ I have no curi- 
osity to pry into the secrets of others.” 

If Douglass had not known himself the villain he felt himself 
to be, he might have been alarmed at the difference of manner in 
Julia, so very unusual in one who always counted the minutes 
he was absent; who knew his step, and rushed to meet him; 
whose whole soul seetned wrapped up in the words of 'her hus- 
band. 

“ Then I will tell you, without your prying,” he said, with a 
laugh. “ We dined at Very’s in the Palais Royal ; and never 
did I witness more hospitality than from Walsingham. We 
were only six at dinner.” 

“ Stop ! stop !” said Julia, “ in pity’s sake, stop ! I do not 
want to hear one word more ; do not — do not make me eter- 
nally miserable ! Let me implore you, stop !” 

“ This is most strange, my dear Julia ! Are my occupations — 
my little amusements uninteresting to you ? are you so changed, 
that even your tears must fall when I would fain amuse you?” 

“It is for your own sake,” replied Julia, “that I will not 
hear; it is that I should not be made miserable by ceasing to 
admire you. Tell me, Robert, frankly, have I ever since the 
day we married occasioned you one bitter moment, — have I 
ever failed in the duty of a true and affectionate wife?” 

“ Good God 1” said Robert, rather alarmed, “ are you mad, 
Julia? — what can be the upshot of this eloquence ?” 

“ I ask you,” continued the poor thing, sobbing, “ have I 
ever failed in my duty to you ?” 

“ No, certainly not,” he replied ; “ and I hope this is mutual : 

I trust you will exonerate me.” 

There was no answer, but she cried and sobbed most pite- 
ously : at last she continued, “ Oh, heavens ! that we, who 
have every luxury on earth, should thus be made miserable ! — 
that we, who have known as much happiness as the world could 
shower upon us, must perhaps eat the bread of labour, and ex- 
change all our comforts for penury and disgust! That the say- 
ings of a gipsy should be realised ! — that — ” 

“ Why, Julia, my love,” he interrupted, “ surely my ears de- 
ceived me ! Can you be frightened at a shadow ? — can the words 
of a gipsy cause all these tears — all these apprehensions ?” 


178 


WALSINGHAM, 


“ No, Robert, no ; lam not the simpleton to believe in any 
such shilling prophecies. But come here,’* she said; and tak- 
ing him by the arm, she led him to the window. “ Do you see 
that house opposite'?” she continued. Douglass felt the flesh 
creep upon his bones. “Nay, answer me; what house is 
that?’'' 

“ Do you take me, Julia,” he replied, “ for Galignani’s Paris 
Guide, that I should know each house in the street? Why, 
what can make you so moved at the sight of a house you must 
have seen for a month ! Really this is too silly ! If you want to 
know, I can easily ask the question.” 

“ Will you promise me, Robert, never to enter that house?” 

“ To be sure, my dear. Why should I wish to enter a house 
to which I am a stranger, and in which — ” 

“Stop — stop, Robert; I hardly dare to tell you; and yet I 
feel I should be wanting in my own duty if I hesitated. Do 
not, I pray you, make me know the truth of the last line of the 
gipsy’s prophecy.” 

“ Still,” he interrupted, “ harping upon that precious dog- 
grel.” 

“ Still and for ever,” she continued. “ Tell me, Robert, 
what wouhl you say to me if I told you an untruth, when your 
own eyes had witnessed the occurrence, and you knew I was 
saying what was false ?” 

“ I should despise you.” 

“Nay, nay, any other word but that, Robert; choose from 
out the whole catalogue of the dictionary, but omit that word — 
that recorded, hated word. I will not let you fall into the error 
your consideration for me has prompted you to do. When you 
left me last night with that man, for whom I have entertained a 
decided hatred, notwithstanding his compliments, I ran to the 
window to see even the carriage which contained my own, my 
dear Robert. The rain fell fast, the night was dark and windy ; 
and yet, as Heaven is my judge, 1 saw you and your friend 
cross the street and enter that house. Nay, look, — our window 
commands that which lightens the staircase; the lamp shone 
bright, and I saw you and Walsingharn enter the door on the 
right hand. Believing you had called for some other friend, I 
waited to see you return ; I stood at this window fixed as a 
monument until half-past eight o’clock, when, just as I was 
about to give poor Houghton what he required, I saw you and 
your friend leave that house and enter the next. I returned 
from the greatest pleasure a mother experiences, to the greatest 


THE GAMESTER. 


179 


curse a wife can know. I saw you leave the second house, and 
with a hurried step again enter that house. The waiter hap- 
pened to come in at the moment ; I asked him to whom that 
residence belonged : imagine my horror when I learnt that those 
two buildings contributed to ruin young Houghton ; and that 
you — for I saw you go in — you were now in the mesh from 
which few ever escaped ! I could not sleep ; I waited and wait- 
ed half frantic, when at two o’clock I saw you pass the lamp at 
the entrance and cross the street : I hurried to my room and 
prayed ; but sleep has been a stranger to me. I know the dan- 
ger by which we are surrounded ; and, Robert, hate me not for 
that which led to the discovery, for it was founded on affection 
matured by love. Now I fear the child will suffer from my 
fretting and my apprehension. I dare not send for a nurse, for 
the medical attendant declared any change in Houghton’s case 
might be fatal.” 

“ And you watched me, Julia, in order to convict me — to les- 
sen me in your own estimation — to hold me in check — to ex- 
tract the falsehood, and then to beard me with the truth ?” 

“Oh! just heaven, what misery — what fresh misery is in 
store for me 1 1 told you, Robert, that the wish to see even the 
carriage that conveyed you first tempted me to the window : 
now it becomes a mother’s duty to avoid that irritation of mind 
which might poison the stream of Houghton’s existence ; and 
my only mode of avoiding it is thus — ” (and she tlirew herself 
upon her knees,)-— “ to pray — to implore you to forgive me an 
apparent curiosity — to restore me to your good opinion — to be- 
lieve me incapable of duplicity, and as fond and as affectionate 
as on that day which saw us united. — Oh !” she said, as he 
raised her from the floor, and as she threvv her arms round his 
neck; “ leave this place — leave this hated spot: better would 
it be to risk the life of Houghton by moving, than of insuring it 
by remaining here. Even now I should give the natural suste- 
nance to our son, and I dare not; I much fear I have already 
increased the mischief: but you, Robert, must make me happy, 
and then he will thrive.” 

Douglass scarcely knew what to do — what to say. Here this 
excellent creature, instead of branding him with the infamy he 
deserved, was soliciting pardon for a proof of affection, since 
that affection had led to a discovered duplicity on his part. He 
was overcome by shame: he felt the guilt which was justly at- 
tached to him ; and after kissing her fondly, he endeavoured to 
soothe her into quietude. 


180 


WALSINGHAM, 


“Oh ! generous Robert,” she continued, “ thus to forgive my 
first fault: but do — pray do leave Paris. How often have I 
thought over the history of young Houghton ! But he was dif- 
ferent to you, for he hated his wife : -but you, Robert, you still 
love me ; and although 1 fancy I see a slight alteration, yet that 
must be in the vexation of loss, or the displeasure at the disco- 
very. I hope before to-morrow’s sun has set we shall be far 
away from here.” * 

“I cannot go yet, my dear,” replied Douglass; “I have 
written to Verity for some money which it is absolutely requi- 
site to iiave, and until I get that letter it would be impossible to 
leave Paris.” 

“Then grant me this one request,” she continued: “pro- 
mise me never to place your foot inside that door again. Re- 
member to what you owe your prosperity, and let not the same 
means lead to adversity and poverty. I feel as a mother ought : 
I know that Houghton and myself have no settlement or entail- 
ment; that when once the inroad is made upon the principal, 
the rest is in jeopardy. Do you remember, when you first 
warned me against extravagance, your remark, that although the 
ship was large and strong, one plank might lead her to destruc- 
tion ; that the citadel was safe until the smallest breaclt was made 
in the wall; — in short, as the French say, ‘ Ce ne que le pre- 
mier pas qui coute V I do hope,” she continued, “ that your loss 
has not been severe : and if this infatuation has so entirely 
taken possession of you, do now ^hat which will make your 
family secure — that which will place us beyond want, should 
you persevere in this course of destruction. Now forgive me, 
Robert, and I will see the child.” 

He kissed her again and again ;. he regarded her as his guar- 
dian angel: he felt that a hand was extended to save him from 
the overwhelming wave, and he became in lighter spirits and in 
merrier mood. 

In the mean time an alteration had taken place for the worse 
in little Houghton, and Douglass was warned by the medical 
attendant on no account to allow the slightest thing to agitate his 
wife : in fact, he mentioned that he did not regard his child as 
free from danger, but he hoped that his skill was suflicient to 
surmount the obstacles. He promised to call in the evening, 
and scarcely had he left the house before Mr. Walsingham w'as 
announced. 

The conversation had reference to that hell which he had lat- 
terly frequented. In all his words he evidently endeavoured to 


THE GAMESTER. 


181 


defend the system, and to show that many had been very suc- 
cessful ; that they only saw the shadows, whereas the substance 
was away revelling in riches. He added, that the Salon was 
supported by those timid players who were scared at their first 
loss, and who wanted the common courage of the Spaniard to 
risk a little more in order to recover themselves. He ridiculed 
all the wise saws of the elderly gentleman, whom he represented 
as a disappointed person, and who had suffered from a want of 
common caution in play. 

“ Your system,” he added, “ must succeed : but you must re- 
member to adhere to your own rules ; it was by infringing those 
that you suffered so much last night.” He then quietly hinted 
that he intended to avail himself of Douglass’s kind invitation to 
dinner. This, however, was parried on account of Houghton’s 
indisposition, postponing pleasure until a future occasion. 

Douglass had previous to this visit made a fixed determina- 
tion never to enter that place again ; but, alas ! even Walsing- 
ham had power to shake his resolution. He pondered over his 
words. He thought himself already one infirm of purpose; he 
regarded himself as a craven coward ; and he shook from his 
heart the persuasions of Julia, and the imbecilities of affection. 
He passed the day in idle vacancy; he had no spirit to under- 
take any work ; he heard the medical gentleman when he warn- 
ed him of the chattge in Houghton for the worse, with listless 
indifference : so true is the sentence, “ where the treasure is, 
there is the heart also.” 

In the mean time the hours dragged on through the day, and, 
after many soothing medicines, Houghton fell asleep: and no 
sooner was Julia aware that her presence could be dispensed 
with, than she flew to her husband. Douglass had not seen the 
boy for the whole day, and now she insisted on his visiting the 
cradle, in order to see how much altered he was. With cau- 
tious step they moved from room to room : at last he stood by 
his son. Tiiere lay the emblem of innocence, his face ruddy 
with fever, his little lips apart, and yet so slightly came the 
breath as to be almost inaudible. In vain the nurse covered the 
little arms now emaciated by sickness, the heated infant soon 
released itself from the enthralment ; whilst the danger of its 
awaking rendered it expedient to use some lighter covering. 
Julia took a scarf which she wore round her neck and placed 
it over the exposed limbs. She grasped her husband’s hand, 
i and having dismissed the attendant, knelt by the side of the 
cradle and lifted up her hands in earnest prayer. Douglass did 

VOL. I. 16 


182 


WALSINGHAM, 


the same. He knelt, and in the fulness of his heart he ppured 
out his soul before Him who humbles the proud and who suc- 
cours the distressed. He saw the tears course down the smooth 
cheek of his young wife, and he found his own bursting from 
their concealment. He prayed; and Heaven is witness how 
fervent — how sincere were his prayers. They rose ; and as he 
gazed on the little innocent creature, Julia’s soft voice stole above 
the stillness, and he heard her say, 

“ To what wretchedness does a momentary wdldness lead ! 
I would not upbraid you, Robert, when I see that the spark of 
affection still burns within your bosom. Look at your child; 
already has the warning voice of the physician told me of the 
danger, already must you perceive how much of life has left 
that dear infant’s breast. Oh ! what should, what should I do, 
if it were taken from me ! — I am told to be composed,” she 
said as her tears ran in torrents from her eyes ; “ but no one 
can command obedience when the heart is sad, and yet could j 
be happy if I felt that you were so ? But no, Robert ; that 
sunken eye, that haggard look, that compressed lip, seem to in- 
dicate the resolution of despair. If so, gather greater resolution 
from your wife, who, if the branch is severed from the parent 
tree, will bow in all submission to Him who inflicts the blow', 
and cling the closer to him whose duty it is to shelter and pro- 
tect her.” Douglass made an effort to speak ; but the child 
turned restlessly in the cradle. “ Hush, hush, my love !” said 
Julia, as she placed her finger to her lips ; “ hush, hush, 
dearest !” and she beckoned him from the apartment. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


That no man can understand the power of the lure of gam- 
ing without he be a gamester, is certain.. The scene described in 
the last chapter, although of course far, far from the reality — for 
no man can write an emphasis, as a learned lawyer once said — 
was sufficient to have cowered any heart. Douglass saw his 
child asleep, ’tis true, but in a fevered slumber; he had been 
told of the probable event, and that nothing but the restoration of 
peace to the mind of Julia afforded the slightest hope of recovery. 
Even with these dreadful warnings rung in his ears, he stole from 
his bed at midnight, crossed the way, and returned again the loser 


THE GAMESTER. 


183 


of about four thousand pounds. It seemed one eternal tide of 
misfortune; and when for a moment the flood-tide of success 
occurred, he was so beaten by the contiuned loss that he feared 
to avail himself of it; whereas, whenever the ebb began to run, 
he flew in the face of the inconstant goddess, and endeavoured 
to shame her to his service by showing how daringly he com- 
bated her power. This rule ought to be engraven on every 
gamester’s mind : “ When losing, be chary of your stakes, be 
moderate in your bets ; when winning, be generous, be bold, 
and success may follow.” 

It is useless to return to the misery of home : the peace 
once violated, mistrust once engendered, suspicions once enter- 
tained, and affection must be shaken. It was singular how 
exactly he had trodden as yet in the paths of young Houghton, 
excepting that he still loved his wife. Day after day lingered 
on ; when to the great delight of Douglass, he heard of the 
death of his best friend, to whom alone lie could have applied 
for advice and assistance. He was sitting with bis forehead on 
his hands, cursing his folly and his fortune, when he received 
the following letter from Mr. Verity’s partner. 

“Argyle Street, 14 December, 18 — . 

“ Dear Sir, 

“ It becomes a painful duty of mine to announce to you the 
demise of my late very lamented partner Mr. Verity. His, 
death was occasioned by a cold caught in the service of one of 
his clients, which, settling on his lungs, soon overcame his 
constitution, and after lingering in great pain about six weeks, 
he expired the day after the reception of your letter. In con- 
formity with your desire, I enclose you the money required. 

“Mr. Verity was sufficiently himself to read your letter; 
and he most earnestly requested me to urge upon you the ne- 
cessity of settling your landed property, with a portion of your 
funded money, on your son Houghton ; and I promised him to 
use all the influence of a stranger in order to complete so desi- 
rable an end. Mr. Verity, who look a great interest in yourself 
and your welfare, implored me to urge your return to England; 
and I promised him that when I received your instructions, not 
a moment should be lost in completing the deed, the rough copy 
of which has already been drawn by Mr. Verity. I urge this 
the more strongly upon you at this moment, because I am about 
to withdraw from business, feeling myself quite unable to carry 
it on with that talent of which death has deprived me. I there- 
fore beg you will, as soon as convenient, give me the necessary 


184 


WALSINGHAM, 


instructions, or name some firm to whom I shall consign your 
title-deeds, &c. &c. Of course fresh powers of attorney will 
be requisite, in order that your solicitors may receive your 
dividends, &;c. With my best compliments to Mrs. Douglass, 
I am, sir, 

“ Your very obedient servant, 

“ Richard Honor.” 

Douglass was overjoyed at this news : it released him from 
all the shackles of the law ; he was a free man, and in the 
liberty he acquired he forgot the meanness, the heartless, the 
shameless ingratitude which caused him to smile with devilish 
satisfaction when the friend of his benefactor — nay, his best 
friend, was suddenly taken from him. He was in the state of 
high exultation when Julia entered, and even her sorrowing 
countenance brightened when she saw him so excited. 

“What good news has Robert for his Julia?” she began, 
“ that now he looks himself again. See, see what a quiet night 
can produce devoid of the excitement of gaming. What! not 
one kiss for your own dear Julia ? and am 1 so altered that I 
must solicit my morning’s welcome ?” 

He kissed her ; then putting on all the hypocrisy of man’s 
nature, managed to pretend to weep, to ‘‘mimic sorrow when the 
heart was not sad and after uttering one or two words pre- 
paratory to breaking the news, he placed the letter in Julia’s 
hand, and she read it. 

“ Another heavy blow !” she began : “ that man was our 
protector, — his honesty, his candour was our shield. But here 
is no lime to be lost, Robert — you must go to town this evening ; 
by delay your affairs may become embarrassed, and J need not 
urge upon you how strongly I feel the necessity of your com- 
plying with Mr. Verity’s last advice. Houghton is better, and 
I have great hopes that all will yet be well. — But come, Robert, 
although we never have parted since our marriage, yet now I 
see the necessity, I shall not fret : moreover, as 1 hope it will 
make your mind easier when you have settled your affairs, I 
will do my utmost to keep np my spirits and to recover my boy ; 
he is now considered out of all present danger, and I shall write 
to you every post. If you have time, run down to Longdale, 
and look,” she added with a smile which well conveyed her 
meaning, “ at old Houghton’s monument.” 

It so happened that a place in the malh posts was vacant; 
and, willing not to lose a moment, Douglass determined to avail 
himself of that conveyance in preference to his carriage. A 


THE GAMESTER. 


185 


small portmanteau was soon packed, the passport was soon 
signed, and he spent the rest of the day in fondling his boy 
and making promises to his \yife. Walsingham had called, but 
had been refused. There was, however, one little event which 
Douglass had overlooked : in a week’s time, bills which he had 
given for eight thousand pounds would become due, and he had 
omitted to mention to whom he should remit the money in order 
that the holder of the bills might receive payment; he had put off 
the business from day to day, and now had forgotten it. Julia 
and her husband dined early on the day of departure ; at half- 
past five he left his hotel, having again felt the tenderness of 
love and experienced the warm delight of affection. 

At six o’clock he drove out of the court-yard of the post-office ; 
he jolted over gutters, twisted round corners, and underwent 
as much exercise in an hour as a fox-hunter gets in a hard run. 
His companion was a fat Frenchman, who had carefully en- 
veloped himself in about ten coats, had covered his head with 
a seal-skin cap, and his mouth with a dirty shawl, leaving his 
nose only visible, through which he contrived to snore when 
asleep, although he stuffed it with enormous pinches of snuff 
when awake. His whole time was spent in snoring, snuffing, 
coughing, and spitting. He once tried a cigar, but Douglass 
objected ; and they never exchanged words until they arrived at 
Amiens, where they were turned out in a dirty wet street, to 
walk some distance to the Hotel de la Poste whilst the mail 
drove on to the post-office, in order that they might be refreshed 
and reinvigorated by a towel and some coffee. 

Douglass had full time for reflection and for the formation of 
plans. He determined for the future to be the possessor of his 
own papers, and to allow his bankers to receive his dividends, 
giving them a power of attorney for that, as well as one to enable 
them to sell out stock should he require it. The deeds relative 
to Longdale he resolved to place also at his banker’s, so as to 
have every thing under immediate control ; and when he sum- 
med up his losses, he found himself already deficient twenty 
thousand pounds, besides the money owed, with the disease 
incurable upon him. 

With visions of better fortune before him, he dozed into all 
the slumber one can experience in such a vehicle, and was 
heartily glad when nine the next night arrived and he could see 
the light-house of Calais. By ten he was as comfortable as 
Rignole could make him : and if civility and a good house are 
conducive to comfort, it will be found where he slept on the 
night of his arrival, 

16 ^ 


186 


WALSINGHAM, 


The sea was calm, the weather fair ; the steam-boat made 
her passage in three hours, and once more he was on English 
ground, a lodger in Payne’s York Hotel. How widely different 
are the two countries, and yet how close ! It is impossible to 
find within the same distance so marked a contrast as may be 
seen by merely crossing the water to France. 

The next day he was in town ; and his first visit was to Mrs. 
Walton. He found her in the full enjoyment of health, dangling 
a child of about eighteen months old on her knees, and every 
now and then making the child say “Papa” for a sugar-plum. 
She looked the picture of contentment, although by no means 
so gay and lively as he had known her. By her side, on the 
sofa, was her sister Amelia, a girl of about eighteen, fresh, rosy, 
and pretty — a walking image of Louisa during the days of her 
youth and innocence. He remarked that Louisa was more 
sedate in her manner, and soon found that she had become 
serious in religious matters: and by the word “serious” be it 
understood as endeavouring to describe that “ righteousness 
overmuch” which in our days has become not only so pre- 
dominant, but so fashionable. Perhaps her former life might 
have led her to this consolation, for women are mostly in ex- 
tremes ; and that she thus endeavoured to make amends for her 
former transgressions, as sinners when about to die make friends 
with their enemies, and by way of cheating the Devil, build an 
hospital or endow a college, leaving half their own families 
paupers on the parish. 

Her sister was a lively contrast. Whilst the face of one had 
become habituated to a certain demureness of expression, the 
other was lit up by the bright eyes of youth and innocence ; and 
he allowed her unreserved remarks to flow from the prettiest lips 
which ever pouted an impertience. 

The reason of Douglass’s visit was soon explained. Louisa 
groaned over the death of Verity, but forgot the loss of her friend 
in the pious apprehension that he might not have been prepared. 
Site could give Douglass no worldly information ; and when he 
asked about Mr. Honor, he received for answer that he had better 
“ keep his house in order.” To a question relative to his sister- 
in-law and Charles, he only gleaned that they were following 
“ the paths of the wicked — rioting and chambering;” that they 
lived more like Heathens than Christians, and devoted them- 
selves to Satan by frequenting the assemblies of the sinners. 

Amelia kindly gave him more assistance. She assured him 
that Charles was excessively steady; that Margaret loved him 
just as much as ever she did, and that she had never yet heard 


THE GAMESTER. 


187 


of the slightest difference having occurred ; that Margaret was 
much admired for her beauty, but no scandal had ever been 
whispered against her. Douglass soon found that Amelia lent 
a ready ear to his vivid descriptions of Parisian pleasures ; and 
when he mentioned his intention — for he was not asked — of 
dining with the Waltons that day, in order to consult Mr. Wal- 
ton upon business, Amelia declared herself in raptures with the 
prospect of again listening to the recital of pleasures she so ar- 
dently desired to share. 

At dinner, Douglass remarked that Walton participated in 
the gloomy taciturnity of his wife, and he began seriously to 
think that they esteemed it a sin to be happy. Wine, that 
generous orator — that revealer of the inmost heart — that dis- 
penser of joy and destroyer of sorrow — that miracle by which 
llie poor believe themselves rich, was held in abhorrence; it 
was offered, but offered in the same manner that the admirers of 
Socrates might have proffered the poison to him. 

From Walton he gleaned nothing, saving that he had always 
managed his own affairs ever since he heard that Mr. Verity 
attended the Epsom Races ; and that as for Mr. Honor^ to his 
certain knowledge he had been often to the theatres, and there- 
fore was not a man in whom he would put any trust. 

It is said that ruin always makes a man a Radical, and that 
the disappointed are always Reformers ; but what had converted 
Walton was to Douglass quite a puzzle. He had never assisted 
a friend^ and therefore could not have been neglected; he 
had never tried any speculation, to his knowledge, excepting 
that of marriage in the way of a time bargain, and therefore had 
never lost, — and that speculation he made with his eyes open, 
and with greedy hands ready to grasp the treasure : but he had 
become evidently a convert to the new light, and considered tea 
and tracts as much more conducive to the healthy state of both 
body and soul than rich dinners and generous wines. 

l)ouglass was glad to escape from the tete-a-tete after the 
frugal repast; and he hastened to converse with Amelia, who 
had become more attached to him from his being the only per- 
son she had seen who was not of that straight-haired order. 
Her lively remarks were frequently checked by her guardian 
angel Mrs. Walton, who now considered it a breach of the 
Sabbath to laugh, and a profanation to wear a cheerful counte- 
nance : so true it is that women rush into extremes, and endea- 
vour to make up in the sanctity of age what they lost in the 
levity of youth. 


188 


WALSINGHAM, 


Poor Amelia was considered as a lost mortal : although en- 
dowed with a proper sense of religion, she could not alter 
nature, and fix upon the shoulders of eighteen the heavy noddle 
of seventy. To Douglass’s offer of taking her to Paris she 
acceded instantly; and even Louisa did not withhold her con- 
sent: since her marriage with Walton, and her altered manner 
in regard to that seriousness, she had grown rather penurious, 
and had imbibed all the bad qualities of that ove.r-righteous sect 
which holds the innocent meeting of people at dances as dan- 
gerous to salvation, and regards a dinner-party as a challenge to 
the Devil. 

Douglass considered the hasty assent to his offer as a proof 
that Amelia was tolerated rather than beloved, and that her sis- 
ter did not relish the increase of the weekly bills occasioned by 
the little additional expense they found it requisite to incur in 
order that they might still have the reputation of being not only 
liberal, but fashionable. It is very strange, but it is true, that 
no people who outwardly pretend to carnal mortification have 
so much inherent pride as the righteous over much. Poor souls ! 
whilst they see their neiglibours rejoicing in the vortex of perdi- 
tion, they groan over the miseries which they are entailing upon 
themselves : but only entice one of the righteous with the same 
lure, and all the milliners are bothered for a month to bedizen 
the body of the saint. Sackcloth and ashes are very proper 
things of which to read ; but who ever heard of one of our 
modern female saints who adopted the costume ? The fact is, 
that whenever you see a woman overdressed, — which means, 
almost entirely undressed, — you will find she is either a despe- 
rate saint, or a despairing sinner. Mediocrity is best, especially 
in women. 

The next day Douglass busily employed himself arranging 
his affairs. He sold out a considerable sum of money to meet 
the debts he had contracted, and to pay the sums he had lost; 
he wrote a most affectionate letter to his wife, and he finished it 
with a prayer for the safety of Houghton. 

The title-deeds he removed to his banker’s ; and he gave a 
fresh power of attorney to a solicitor of the name of Crimp, 
who, he was given to understand, would be a most useful friend 
in any emergency. Douglass gave him to understand that he 
was the possessor of Longdale, and desired him at his first con- 
venience to go down there with a surveyor, and to make an esti- 
mate of the property : not that he had any intention of selling 
it at that moment, but that he wished to ascertain its real value. 

Douglass then ran down to his mother-in-law’s cottage, and 


THE GAMESTER. 


189 


found her no longer Mrs. Anson, but Mrs. Marshall. The 
worthy rector had taken the widow to wife, and he found that 
his room was belter than his company — for they had only com- 
mitted the rashness the preceding day, and were so happy in 
each other’s society that they evidently did not want his. He 
therefore proffered a thousand congratulations, hastily ran over 
the account of Julia’s and Houghton’s health, the reason of his 
visit to England, the death of Verity, and his determination to 
take over Amelia as a companion for Julia, and likewise to save 
her from becoming at her tender age such a very serious cha- 
racter as her sister. He then looked at the church, cast his 
eyes upon his old cottage, jumped into his carriage, and, re- 
turned to town. 

His principal business being concluded, and a great part of 
his principal being absorbed, he prepared to leave town for Paris, 
having previously written to Stanhope, and promised to take 
every care of his sister, and not to throw her in the way of fall- 
ing in love with any of the forty thousand self-made marquises 
who infbst the French capital. 

Every preparation having been made, Amelia and himself left 
town and proceeded to Dover. They were, as the reader may 
have known, not overmuch acquainted ; for previous to Dou- 
glass’s arrival in England, he had never seen her. Stanhope had 
often spoken about her as a forward pretty girl, who had now 
matured into rather a wild but beautiful and animated creature. 
His first business therefore was to make himself so agreeable 
that she could regard him as a brother, and thus free her from 
those little rigid forms which mark the strangers from the well- 
acquainted ; and accordingly he used all the fascination in his 
power, and was unremitting in those little nothings which hardly 
come within the scope of attentions, but which make more pro- 
gress towards a young heart than half the fine speeches and ful- 
some compliments with which the self-sufficient lover attempts 
to force his way to the citadel. 

Unused to the rapidity of travelling, Amelia became very ex- 
cited, and laughed and talked in the most animated manner. 
Neither was Douglass much behind her in the lively remarks : 
he had caught the enthusiasm from her, and he soon grew from 
the first formality to the familiar and the easy. 

Long before they had arrived at Rochester, he had called her 
his own sister. Douglass soon found Amelia a most agreeable 
companion : she was romantic in her notions, and had read al- 
most every novel which had issued from the press for the last 


190 


WALSINGHAM, 


three years. She was indebted to Mr. Walton’s maid for this 
supply of intellectual food ; for otherwise, no book of that de- 
moralising order ever entered the house of her religious sister. 
Indeed, so far did she carry her scruples upon this point, that a 
Shakspeare was voted improper, and history itself hardly reck- 
oned as worth reading. “Sherlock upon Death” — “ Watts’s Se- 
rious Call” — “ Baxter’s Shove” — “ Crumbs of Comfort” — “ Peni- ' 
tent Sinner” — “ Is it well with You and fifty thousand tracts', 
all very religious, and all very proper, were to be found in every 
room of the house. On Sundays they had cold-meat dinner, in 
order that the cook might go to meeting; and no work or la- 
bour was done within the range of Mr. Walton’s government. 

To read a newspaper was inevitable destruction, and to play 
sacred music on the piano was more than doubtful. The con- 
sequence was, that idleness tended to vice : the servants, on the 
plea of going to meeting, went to the Park ; and the straight- 
haired, pomatum-stinking footman doffed his livery, and assum- 
ing the frizzle head of a beau and the sprightliness of a sinner, 
escorted Mary Scullery in her evening rambles, and became so 
intimate with that methodistical young lady, that it was found 
quite necessary, although by no means convenient, to marry 
them. 

Mrs. Walton once allowed her maid to remain without medi- 
cal assistance because she thought it sinful to call in a physician 
of a Sunday ; and Mr. Walton nearly died of epilepsy, because 
his wife thought it encouraging sin to buy ether on the Sabbath 
from the shop of the neighbouring apothecary. Amelia related 
these little anecdotes with a peculiar liveliness, and she said she 
felt like a bird released from its cage and allowed to flutter in 
freedom. 

“And, Amelia,” he began, “ now that I have charge of your 
sweet self, I should like to know how that little heart of yours 
beats, or if it is the property of some lucky fellow who has cap- 
tivated it.” 

“Indeed,” she replied, “ my heart is my own. One might 
have died at my sister’s without seeing a human face but that 
of one Methodist parson, who did pay me great attention ; but 
I discountenanced him. I could not bear his duplicity, and his 
sanctity left him whenever my sister left the room.” 

“Then I must look after you sharper, my pretty Amelia; 
for in Paris the French whisper love with more assurance than 
a Methodist parson in England ; and you English girls always 
imagine the compliment sweeter because it is paid in a foreign 


THE GAMESTER. 


191 


language: notunlike the sailor, who always thinks his prize- 
money greater when paid in Spanish dollars.” 

“But ladies do not measure love by the compliments; and 
sailors are none the richer in reality for the heavy coin they 
covet; so you are wrong, sir, in both your premises and con- 
clusion.” 

“ I see very well what will be the conclusion of your argu- 
ment, pretty Amelia ; but I am now your guardian and your 
protector, and you will not marry without my consent.” 

“ Oh ! certainly not,” she replied ; and then taking some 
work from her reticule, she stitched with great eagerness as she 
said, “ Ah ! I see 1 am never to be married, for you will never 
give your consent*. I suppose I am to die an old maid, and drive 
asses, — and have a cat and a teapot.” 

“ About the consent you are half right, for I never shall be 
able to part with you. The fact is, I begin to think I shall love 
you too much myself.” 

“ There now, you sinner !” she replied; “you warned me 
against the French compliments, and you are telling me in plain 
English that you love me. Well, well, I’ll be revenged if you 
do not give your consent ; for I’ll tell your pretty little wife 
what a flirt you are. Master Robert.” 

“Don’t you do any such thing, Amelia; or you will make 
her jealous, and I shall lose you.” 

“ Ah ! then,” she replied, “ perhaps I may use a little discre- 
tion, and allow you to be happy.” 

“Very well, Amelia; and you shall have a husband when 
you are tired of me for a friend.” 

“ Dear me !” she replied, “ I always thought they were very 
different things ;” and she worked away. 

In this manner, and keeping up a light frivolous conversation, 
they jumbled through Canterbury, and by nine in the ^evening 
were snugly housed at Payne’s hotel. The next morning they 
crossed to Boulogne, and proceeded to the Hotel de Londres. 
Douglass thought Amelia would go mad with the novelty of the 
scene : she could not resist the temptation to laugh, and she 
quizzed every man, woman, and child who passed. She her- 
self attracted much attention ; for there was a freshness about 
her person which is rarely equalled, and a grace in her walk 
which could never be surpassed. She overheard the many ex- 
pressions of rapture as the strangers, talking purposely loud that 
she might overhear it, pronounced her a real Venus— -an exqui- 
site beauty. 


192 


WALSINGHAM, 


Douglass soon perceived that Amelia’s heart would not prove 
a strong citadel against llie invasion of the female’s tyrant; and 
he knew exactly in what manner a Frenchman makes his ap- 
proaches, and how much he is indebted to his impudence for his 
ultimate success. She had one safeguard — and a great one it is 
on the Continent: she had no money. Those who have lived 
long in Paris are quite aware how little real attention an English- 
woman receives from this gallant nation providing she is not 
married, and has no allurements but her personal charms. 

It is within memory that a certain gentleman passing himself 
as a prince, he having about as much right to the title as the 
Pope has to the Viceroyship of Ireland, had a sister, whom he 
introduced to a family, one of the daughters of which he pre- 
tended very seriously to admire : she had a fair fortune. Some 
one, however, hinted to his highness that the younger sister 
would have the most, and his love was immediately suspended 
until the important news was ascertained. The little princess 
was the person chosen to sound the delicate ground ; and one 
day, when alone with the younger sister, she did not make a 
regular approach, but she assaulted at once and boldly put the 
question, asking thus: — “ Which will have the most money — 
you or your sister?” The young lady, then only fifteen, but 
clever enough, answered, “I will tell you truly if you will tell 
me with equal truth why you ask the question.” — “ Certainly,” 
replied the princess: “it is for the information of my brother, 
who says, if you have most money, he will marry you.” — “ In- 
deed, Annette,” replied the English girl, “ he is too kind : tell 
him that my sister will have the most money, and will be the 
greatest fool of the two if she marries such a mercenary 
His highness was forbid the house, and thus another English 
girl was rescued from foreign claws. 

Douglass hired a French rattletrap, and the next day proceed- 
ed to Abbeville, the day following to Beauvais, and the third 
evening they were in Paris. Douglass rushed into Julia’s arm’s, 
— he embraced his child'now perfectly restored to health, — and 
he introduced his charge, having previously, when in England, 
written to say that she was to be his companion. 

“ Thank heaven you are returned at last, Robert ! Oh ! how 
long — how miserably long has the fourteen days appeared since 
you left me ! I have counted the moments — I have watched the 
close of each day with rapture since the flight of time thus short- 
ened our separation ; but here you are, and all my sorrows for- 
gotten. For you. Miss Stanhope, I have prepared a room; you 


THE GAMESTER. 


193 


are welcome, and I shall be happier now I have a companion,- — 
for that truant Robert is not worthy of the name.” 

Amelia seemed at once to cling to Julia as a friend; an inti- 
macy was established in a moment, and they all sat down to 
dinner, rather tired, but excessively happy. 

“ Do you know, Robert,” said Julia, “ that I am about to give 
you some good advice, and that is, never to leave a young and 
pretty wife like myself in such a place as this without a protec- 
tor. I have had visits from half the nobility — or rather, might 
have had, for they called incessantly, and I was ultimately 
obliged to place myself under the protection of your friend and 
old schoolfellow Walsingham. He has been unremitting in his 
kindness, and has been daily here to inquire when you were ex- 
pected, and to offer his services to me.” 

Douglass knew the reason very well which had induced his 
friend to be so anxious about his arrival : he owed him some 
money, and his bills had become due ; he felt for his respectabi- 
lity, and for his losses, no doubt. “ Indeed,” replied Douglass, 
“ I am glad to hear it: when was he here last?” 

“ This morning; and he seemed really glad when I told him 
you would be in Paris to-day. He promised to call to-morrow, 
and refused my invitation for this evening on the plea of your 
being fatigued. — Such a nice man, Amelia ! At first I disliked 
him ; but his attention during Robert’s absence overcame my 
prejudice. He is so clever and shrewd 1 — besides which, he is 
an old acquaintance of Robert’s, and one of the only men we 
know ; for, owing to Houghton’s indisposition, we have lived 
quite retired. He will make a charming companion for you : 
he speaks French beautifully, and is, by his own description, 
quite a walking guide for Paris. — Now tell me, Robert, how is 
my mother, and all our friends and relations?” 

Douglass briefly narrated, for he felt little inclined to talk, the 
marriage of her mother, the awful and serious change of Louisa, 
and the reports concerning Margaret. 

“ Oh,” she continued, “ I have received a letter from Marga- 
ret. She intends coming to Paris in three months’ time : her 
husband will then have some few months leave, and she is desi- 
rous of seeing how we ‘ get along,’ as the Americans say ; for 
she declares, that never was there a husband so good as Charles 
Stanhope.” 

“ He is a dear, kind, good, affectionate brother as ever lived,” 
Amelia remarked,. “ and promises to be as good a husband, and 
would be as kind and as indulgent a parent.” 

VOL. I. 17 


194 


WALSINGHAM, 


“ Well done, Amelia !” said Douglass ; Charles’s trumpe- 
ter is not dead. I wish I had some one to blow mine for me 
half as well. Now, tell us about the Methodist parson.” 

“ Not I, indeed,” replied the sprightly girl ; “ he is too seri- 
ous for me. He may be a very good man ; but I wish he were 
less at my sister’s, and more in his pulpit. He preaches re- 
markably well ; but he is very indifferent, I am sure, in his 
practice. If I am to fall in love, I would rather fall in love 
with Mr. Walsingham, solely because he is the friend of 
Robert.” 

Douglass gave a deep sigh ; he saw all the mischief which 
might fall upon them, and he felt that now Walsingham would be 
his companion even if he did not wish it. The first falsehood had 
paved the way for the rest, and it required his utmost effort of 
memory not to tell another whenever a question was asked him. 
So true it is, that one lie is the preface to another. 

“ I shall never give my consent, Amelia,” he said, smiling. 
“ You know the terms.” 

“ Oh yes,” she replied, whilst a light blush played for a 
minute on her cheeks, “ I remember the agreement, and like- 
wise your remark ; but as I have a regard for myself and my 
happiness, as well as for your own, I shall not betray it. I’m 
very tired, and I’m off to bed. Good night!” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Douglass’s first endeavour when left alone with Julia was to 
discover, if possible, how far the many conversations she had 
exchanged with Walsingham had been to his prejudice ; for had 
he betrayed the secret of his gambling, the extent of his losses, 
his frequent attendance at the Salon, and his present debts, he 
knew tliat all his happiness was at an end ; Julia would have 
discovered the frequent falsehoods, and consequently he never 
should have been credited even by his own wife. He soon 
perceived from the cross examination that Walsingham had told 
sufficient to excite curiosity without having satisfied it; at the 
same time that he had considerably gained in his wife’s estima- 
tion. He had been so attentive during the child’s illness, had 
called every day, had volunteered his services, and had confessed, 
when questioned, that he had seen Douglass at the Salon, but 


THE GAMESTER. 


195 


that he believed a few pounds would cover his losses. Julia’s 
whole occupation seemed to have been nursing Houghton and 
pumping VValsingham. 

The first hour when alone was in talking over her mother’s 
marriage, for she had received an account herself from the person 
most interested : then they canvassed the. conduct of Louisa, 
‘then that of Stanhope, and lastly, as if afraid of coming to the 
point, and therefore avoiding it as long as possible, they touched 
upon Verity, his partner, the settlement deed, and other minor 
questions. Douglass was now deep in lying ; he had broken 
the ice, and cared not how much more he added to the account. 

“ The deed,” he replied, “ was not finished when I left town ; 
but instructions had been left with Honor to complete and send 
it over for signature. Longdale was in high perfection, and the 
moaument to Houghton had been duly regarded.” This little 
heap of falsehoods seemed greatly to restore Julia to the peace 
she had known before ; he promised faithfully not to risk any 
further sum to recover the little he had lost, and they fell asleep, 
one dreaming of future felicity, and the other of the round table, 
green-covered lamp, croupiers, dice, fortune, and throwing in ten 
mains, or the colour running for fourteen times. 

Breakfast was scarcely finished, and Amelia and Douglass in 
comfortable conversation, when the servant announced Mr. 
Walsingham ; and before Douglass could- give directions for 
showing him into another room, the thin gentleman came like a 
shadow of the thin servant, and shook hands with Douglass with 
great cordiality. On seeing Amelia, whom he had at first taken for 
Julia, his countenance became suddenly as pale as the dead, and 
he ejaculated “ Miss Stanhope !” with the most evident surprise. 
Douglass introduced him immediately ; but his bow was that of 
timidity — his whole manner was more like a frightened boy 
than a man of the world, and it was some time before he re- 
covered himself : but Douglass thought he saw a gleam of 
inexpressible joy come over his countenance when addressing 
Miss Stanhope ; he said “ Amelia, will you leave Mr. Wal- 
singham with me for a niioment ?” He arose and said, “ I trust. 
Miss Stanhope, it will only be for a moment whilst Amelia, 
blushing, left the room. 

“ I am most thankful that you are returned,” began Walsing- 
ham ; “I have had a world of trouble to pacify your creditors : 
they have been clamorous, and have united together against you ; 
it was with great difficulty I could get them from sending a huis- 
sier to seize your carriage and other things belonging to you. 
Your old man, as I call him, spread the report that you had 


196 


WALSINGHAM, 


taken refuge in Italy, and that you were separated from your 
wife. My contradiction, and my daily report that your wife 
was in Paris, had heard from yon, and expected your return, 
pacified them. I find they hold your acceptances for 8000/., 
and I hope you are come prepared to pay them directly : indeed 
some of them are in the street now, and the sooner you satisfy 
them the better.” 

“ That I am prepared to do directly,” replied Douglass ; “ the 
money is all at Lafitte’s, and more than is requisite : but first 
let me pay you the trifle you lent me and he placed in his 
hand two bills of a thousand francs each. 

“Oh ! this little trifle,”' replied Walsingham, “ does not sig- 
nify in the least ; and if it is of any service to you, my dear sir, 
let me entreat you to keep it.” 

Douglass thanked him for his kindness, and proposed instantly 
going and arranging the accounts; to which Walsingham as- 
sented ; and before noon that day, Douglass had paid the above 
amount, and was released from all importunities, and his credit 
as high as ever. 

Walsingham now proposed to pay Mrs. Douglass a congra- 
tulatory visit; and he began by skirmishing before he ventured 
to say that Amelia was a very fine girl, and that he never re- 
membered being so overcome at first sight by any person in his 
life. He thus enticed Douglass to speak of her ; and he fancied 
that Walsingham had elicited all he required to know, — namely, 
her connexions and her prospects. Douglass thought he felt an 
odd convulsive motion of his arm when he referred to Mr. 
Walton, in whose house, he mentioned, Amelia had resided. 
He then adverted to the marriage of Charles, and that he was 
likely to come over for a few months in the spring. When 
Walsingham heard this, he asked if Mrs. Walton was likely to 
join the party. When Douglass answered, “ Certainly not,” 
she would not put her foot again in this sink of iniquity, he felt 
another convulsive squeeze, and he thought his friend increased 
his pace towards the door. 

In the mean time, Amelia had, with all the light feeling of her 
age, bounded into Julia’s room, and commenced a conversation 
with her relative to the first impression of Walsingham when 
he was introduced to her, and the sudden and unexpected 
ejaculation of her name. “ I am sure, my dear Julia, you 
must have told him that I was expected, for he knew me im- 
mediately.” 

“ Upon my word, my dear Amelia, I never did mention your 
name to him ; neither did I ever say that you were expected ; 


THE GAMESTER, 


197 


but you seem as if he had made some impression upon you 
already. Now don’t fall in love, for we know very little about 
his prospects or his property — and great love and little money 
never go well together.” 

Oh ! love indeed ! — why, .Tulia, you are as bad as your 
husband ! Every one fancies, because a person comes to Paris, 
she must necessarily fall in love; as if Cupid was in the air, and 
finding it too light to support his weight, came walking into the 
houses. He certainly did appear very much surprised at seeing 
me, and, for the first acquaintance, I have no hesitation in saying 
that I like his appearance.” 

“Perhaps he is timid before strangers,” continued Julia; 
“ and I suppose he learnt your name from some of the servants, 
as I take it for granted he did not see ‘ Stanhope’ written in your 
countenance, pretty as it may be; — and that, my dear Amelia, 
no one is more ready to allow than myself.” 

“ You are a dear good creature, Julia : but really I only asked 
you because he appeared confused ; and I expected rather to 
find a bold than a timid admirer, from all I have heard of the 
Parisians. I wonder if Robert will ask him to dinner; not that 
I care about it, but I should like to see him again.” 

“ Depend upon it you will see enough of him ; for I flatter 
myself he is rather struck with my beauty, — and so do not 
imagine that you are to make all the conquest. — Oh! here is 
Houghton, looking rosy and lovely.” 

“Nurse! — nurse!” said Amelia, springing towards her,— 
let me have him ! There, Julia, see how fond he is of me ! 
he does not cry a bit, pretty little chubby darling !” and she 
kissed him over and over again. “ How Ilikq children ! There 
you go ! up, up, up !” she continued as she threw the child in the 
air. “ Dear little cherub, what a comfort you must be to your 
parents !” 

“ 1 begin to doubt that,” replied Julia, “ for I am sure I felt 
more anguish when the child was sick than I ever felt pleasure 
when it was well ; for I thought how wretchedly miserable I 
should be if it were taken from me. Oh ! how long did I remain, 
my eyes fixed upon the child ! I could not sleep — I knew no 
comfort — I dreaded every change. But now that I see it well 
and likely to continue so, although thankful to God for his great 
goodness, yet I do not know an equal pleasure to the extreme 
pain I suffered. We were all alone ; Robert was in London, 
and I had only the child and the doctor to comfort me.” 

“ Never mind, Julia ; 1 shall be nurse to the child, and save 

17 # 


198 


WALSINGHAM, 


your arms. Since Louisa has had a family, I think she is much ii 
happier.” 

“Much happier !” interrupted Julia; “ why, are they not as 
happy as the day is long ? I heard from Robert that they lived 
like turtle-doves, and scarcely ever were separated for a moment. 

Is he mistaken ? 

“A little,” replied Amelia. “For about a year after their 
marriage they went on uncommonly well.” (“ Hush ! Hough- 
ton, hush !” she said, as she rocked the child in her arms.) 

“ But no sooner did they get acquainted with a Mr. Cantall, 
than a visible change took place. Cantall was a good-looking 
man, and would have been better-looking had he not stuck his 
hair in straight lines over his head. He possessed a musical ' 
voice, and was apparently so good, so righteous, that Louisa 
was always glad when he called. By degrees he became almost 
an inmate in the house. A more than usual sanctity soon was 
visible; and his brotherly love increased at a wonderful pace. I 
About this time I came to the house on a visit to my sister; and 
I soon found that I was destined to be annoyed by his continual 
endeavours to convert me. He spoke of sisterly affection : as 
he read some tracts, with which he always crammed his pockets, 
and I often detected his eyes roving towards me ; and whenever 
any passage was particularly tender, that passage was invariably 
directed to me. Walton had caught the enthusiastic ravings of 
this wretched creature, and began, from being open and un- 
reserved, to become suspicious and scrupulous. He changed 
his lawyer because he went to the races, and placed his affairs 
in the hands of another, who absconded with some of his money 
about a fortnight afterwards. This made him morose, and 
soured his temper. His suspicions next fell upon Cantall, who 
was now almost domiciled in the.house : hence a little difference 
began with Louisa, which their austerity, so far from removing, 
has seriously increased. I, however, have been the cause of 
ejecting him from the house ; for one day, when I was endea- 
vouring to please him by reading one of his tracts, he approached 
nearer and nearer my chair, until I felt his arm encircle my 
waist, and before I could escape he kissed me. I flew out of the 
room to Mr. Walton, who, glad enough to get any opportunity 
of being rid of this hypocrite, desired him to take up his bed 
and walk, and never more to enter his abode. The vile fellow, 
looking at me, and saying with the most demure look, ‘ Peace 
be with you and in this house !’ walked off — and 1 hope, for 
ever.” 

“ And Louisa,” interrupted Julia, “ what did she say to this ?” 


THE GAMESTER. 


199 


“ She felt it much, because she always thought him so good 
a man, and one who was, as he represented himself, a labourer 
in the vineyard : she declared that all his ways ‘ were ways of 
righteousness, and all his paths were peace but one thing is 
quite certain, — namely, that Walton is not so gay or so happy 
as he was, and that Louisa has become downcast and sad. I 
dare say, if Robert had not taken compassion on me, my hair 
would never have curled again !” 

“You area funny girl, Amelia! But I see Houghton has 
fallen asleep, and you have proved yourself a good nurse, so 
place the baby in tlie cradle, and let us see if Robert has re- 
turned home. But don’t you fancy that Mr. Walsingham will 
admire you : — no, no ; lam to make new conquests^ although I 
am a wife and mother.” 

The very marked manner which was manifested when the 
ladies entered the room where Robert and Walsingham were 
seated, must have convinced Julia that Walsingham was much 
taken with the fine features of Amelia. She was of moderate 
stature ; her hair raven black — a most determined jet ; her eye- 
brows arched a little, and joined ; her eyes, shaded by the long 
lashes, were dark and clear; whilst the upper lip had a peculiar 
tendency to pout, as if the tender part grew more than usual 
over the skin of the face : her features were beautifully regular, 
and she wore her hair in the Grecian style. To Douglass’s eyes 
her figure was perfect ; but Julia, when she became jealous, dis- 
covered that her shoulders were too high, her feet too large, her 
waist too small, and her fingers too long. 

The conversation began in that usual manner so peculiar to 
English people : we are more indebted to a snuff-box and the 
clouds for a commencement than any other nation in existence. 
This prelude having been duly played without any variations, 
Amelia commenced by saying that she hoped we were not con- 
demned to be moped in this gilded prison, either by day or by 
night ; that she had heard of the gay doings of this metropolis. 
“ And, Mr. Walsingham,” she added, “I shall enlist you in our 
service, and expect you will be a true and faithful knight.” 

“ You may depend upon my utmost exertions. Miss Stan- 
hope,” he replied : “ it would be quite a sufficient inducement 
to be allowed a participation in your society ; and I verily be- 
lieve that had I been Adam in Paradise with you, I should have 
tasted the forbidden fruit if you had offered it.” 

“ Bravo, Mr. Walsingham I” said the lively girl. “ You seem 
to have lived long enough in Paris to have caught the manners 
and customs of the nation.” 


200 


WALSINGHAM, 


“Long enough at any rate,” replied Walsingham, “to have 
learned to admire beauty, youth, and sprightliness, when they 
are concentrated in one fair female.” 

“ There, Julia !” replied Amelia, “ that must have been meant 
for you ; for I never could get a compliment paid me, excepting 
by some old married man like Robert, or some serious gentle- 
man like Cantall.” 

“You are in the same position as heretofore,” said Walsing- 
ham, “ for I never pay a compliment.” 

“And lam quite certain she never deserves one,” replied 
Julia. — “ But a truce to this. I for one certainly feel inclined 
to see all that Paris can show ; and I propose, since good for- 
tune has made us acquainted with Mr. Walsingham, that he 
enacts master of the ceremonies. The change will benefit me ; 
and now, thank Heaven ! as we are all well in spirits and health, 
I am resolved to play the truant a little myself.” 

“Well, Walsingham,” Douglass said, “ we are under your 
orders, and to you I confide the ladies, — that is, as far as sight- 
seeing goes ; but after your flattering speeches, I must enact 
guardian.” 

“ Oh, thank yon, Robert I” replied Amelia ; “ I am to be un- 
der your surveillance, am I ? then see what a pretty dance I 
will lead you! But come, Julia, let us put on our bonnets:” 
and very shortly afterwards both the ladies returned. 

In their absence, however, Douglass confided his intentions 
to Walsingham. “ Walsingham,” he began, “I fear this lively 
little romp will be a great bar to my recovering my losses ; for 
it will be impossible to get out without detection, and I cannot 
leave them alone of an evening.” 

“ Really,” replied Walsingham, “ I have thought much of 
your situation, and am now of opinion that the first loss is the 
least. Perhaps, if you followed up your system, you might ul- 
timately succeed ; but I think that you, as a married man with 
a family, would act more prudently by abstaining from the 
Salon. But if you are determined to persevere — which I most 
strenuously oppose — it is as easily done before dinner as after- 
wards : any time after three o’clock Frascati’s is open, and by 
that hour we can always have managed to have fatigued the 
ladies. — But mind, I/ecommend your not playing at all.” 

“ Wijy, it was but the other day you spoke of the timid men 
as the only losers, and prompted me to play continually — nay, 
desperately ; and now you change like the wind, and are dead 
against it 1” 

“ I did not know so much of your family then as I do now. 


THE GAMESTER. 


201 


Your wife evidently suspects you of a great desire to play ; she 
mentioned to me the manner in which you became possessed of 
your fortune, and numerous sayings of brown fortune-tellers, by 
which you are destined to lose it. Now it is obvious you have 
enough to be happy and comfortable, and you will only ruin 
your domestic felicity and your own individual peace of mind 
by following up the blow.” 

“ It is no use — I must play,” replied Douglass. “ I want the 
excitement ; every thing appears dull without it : and I swear I 
would rather play, if I played to a certain loss, than not play at 
all!” 

“ Oh my good friend 1 if it is the excitement of play you re- 
quire, I can always sacrifice a little time to a game or two of 
ecarle, in which the ladies may join. We can play as high as 
you like ; and I should always understand you, if in touching 
one ring on your finger you intended to bet ten Napoleons, in 
touching the second fifty, the third one hundred ; and my 
scratching my ear would be the answer that I took the bet ; 
whereas my omitting to do that, would be an answer in the 
negative. When you were~in, the plan would answer just as 
well. The game is more amusing, as one has the satisfaction 
of dealing the cards and playing them ; whereas at rouge-et-noir 
you only see the fun, and mostly experience the mortification 
I of seeing your money swept away without remorse.” 
j “ I do not altogether,” replied Douglass, “ dislike this propo- 
sition. To be sure, there is one drawback : I do not know the 
I game ; and I am quite certain that neither of the ladies are more 
■ informed than myself.” 

! “lean teach you,” replied Walsingham, “ in a moment : it 
is the easiest game ever played, and after dinner this evening I 
will soon make you understand it thoroughly.” 

I They now sallied out; the ladies walking together; Wal- 
singham supporting Amelia on the right, and Douglass taking 
the side nearest Julia. Their first visit was to the Louvre ; and 
in passing, as they did, by the Rue Castiglione, through the 
Tuilleries, Douglass felt rather astonished at the number of peo- 
ple, and some of them of the most questionable appearance, who 
bowed to Walsingham. To those many questions of Amelia as 
to who they were, she received for answer, that they were no- 
blemen ruined by extravagance, and almost dependant upon 
public charity. This ragamuffin was the Marquis de Chateau- 
ville ; another thin squalid apology for a man, was the Vicomte 
de St. Leon ; and a third, infinitely more like a spy of the police 
than a nobleman, was M. le Due d’Orangeville. “ Changes of 


202 


WALSINGHAM, 


government,” he added, “ are no friends to prosperity ; and when 
the political pot boils, the scum swims. During Napoleon’s 
time, these were great men ; now, under Charles, they are no- 
thing. These poor fellows,” he added, “ are upon my pauper 
list, and I almost ruin myself by my charity : but now^ Miss 
Stanhope,” he continued, “ I think it quite right to begin with 
charity at home, and take care of myself.” 

They entered the Louvre, and for some time kept together, 
but alternately separated ; for whilst Julia and Douglass were 
gazing with rapture on the beautiful picture of the Decapitation 
of Lady Jane Grey, Amelia and Walsingham had walked up 
the long gallery, and were poring over the Death of Endymion. 
Walsingham had offered his arm ; and the splendid appearance 
of Amelia — for she really was beautiful and lively — attracted 
considerable attention. 

Walsingham seemed well acquainted with the pictures and 
their various masters ; he carried with him a catalogue to which 
he rarely referred, and was never deficient in an answer when 
Amelia suggested a question. It was very evident that he had 
been much smitten with her ; and the strange confusion at the 
first interview quite convinced Douglass that he should have to 
use all his guardianship to prevent a too hasty ebullition of 
feeling. 

“ One might linger here for ever,” said Amelia as they joined 
the other party, “and never be satisfied : and Mr. Walsingham 
is so kind, so clever, — he knows all the painters of the different 
pictures, and has been enchanting me with his vivid descrip- 
tions.” 

“ It certainly is the most delightful gallery I ever saw,” con- 
tinued Julia; “ and I intend to make this my daily resort. — But 
we appear to be nearly the only persons left.” 

“ They close it at a certain hour,” replied Walsingham; “ and 
that sad hour is arrived, I fear, for these guardians of the trea- 
sures seem clearing the gallery. It is but another pleasure de- 
ferred,” he continued as he looked with tenderness on Amelia. 
“ But we must vary the scene, and visit the different lions, re- 
turning occasionally to this ; for wheresoever \W3 may go, this, 
after all, is the most agreeable sight and lounge in Paris. — By- 
the-by, I have discovered a great likeness in one of the por- 
traits to Miss Stanhope : it is in the picture further down, of 
Venus playing with Cupid.” 

“ Oh, nonsense,” replied Douglass ; “ you will make the girl 
as vain as a peacock.” 


THE GAMESTER. 


203 


“ I would rather see her,” he replied, “ like the birds of Ve- 
nus, than the gaudy companion of Juno.” 

“ I shall clip your wings, Amelia,” said Douglass, “ be you 
dove or peacock, or this flatterer will turn your brain.” 

“If you attempt to interfere with my compliments,” replied 
Amelia, “ I shall turn my back upon you.” 

They returned to the hotel to dinner. Walsingham was of 
the party, for Douglass felt himself under some obligations to 
him for having interfered in his behalf during his absence. Julia 
admired him the more he became her companion ; and Amelia 
was certainly rather taken with his appearance and manner. 
The dinner was ended — the wine removed — when Walsingham 
thus introduced a subject which ultimately shook the pretty Ju- 
lia’s confidence in her most devoted husband. 

“ As you left the occupation of your leisure time to me,” he 
began, “ I have procured tickets for a masquerade ball.” 

“ Oh, how delightful !” interrupted Amelia. 

“ It is to take place this day fortnight, at the Cercle des 
Etrangers ; and I need hardly say that every lady must be 
masked, although it is optional with us to be so or not. At this 
masquerade will be the elite of Paris. There will be dancing, 
perhaps, by the artistes of the opera ; and at two o’clock there 
will be a grand supper. I think both the ladies will be satisfied 
with this my first project; and if not inclined to go, the tickets 
are easily returned.” 

“ Is it a public masquerade ?” asked Julia. 

“Certainly not,” replied Walsingham; “and great interest 
is required to procure admission.” 

“Oh, Julia, we will go! Come, there is a dear creature! 
say yes, and thank Mr. Walsingham for his kindness and at- 
tention.” 

“ That I am ready to do, and to express the obligaticwi under 
which he has laid us. I shall certainly not object to this, more 
especially as I see Amelia has set her heart upon seeing this 
novelty, to her.” 

“ I think,” added Douglass, “ there can be no objection, ex- 
cepting in the eyes of Amelia’s lover, Mr. Cantall. My pretty 
Venus, cannot you despatch one of your doves to London, and 
tell your romantic admirer of this masquerade, at which he 
might meet you. Come, don’t pout like a pigeon ! it would be 
a feather in any woman’s cap to catch Cantall.” 

“ Now, Robert,” said the gay girl, “ I will ask your consent 
when you least expect it; and let me tell you, that, like the old 
fable, you have shot at a pigeon and killed a crow.” 


204 


WALSINGHAM, THE GAMESTER. 


“ — The crow being Cantall, I hope,” said Walsingham. 

“ Why, he is as black as one,” replied Douglass ; — “ at least, 
so Amelia says.” 

“1 wish I had a piano here,” interrupted Amelia, “ if merely 
to drown your tell-tale voice, you miserable babbler !” 

“ Let us play at cards,” said Douglass ; “ and that will show, 
my pretty Venus, that you have no dealings with the Metho- 
dists.” 

“ And I will volunteer to teach you ecarte,” said Walsing- 
ham : “ it is a game every one must know in Paris, for you are 
obliged frequently to play, and this is the fashionable amuse- 
ment. Do you know it?” he continued, addressing Douglass. 

He replied in the negative, but ringing the bell, ordered the 
cards. 

It was agreed that Walsingham should give the lesson to 
Amelia; and Douglass soon found he was to pay for it. The 
playing of Uve cards seemed so obviously simple, that even Ju- 
lia, who had never played a card in her life, soon took the chair 
and won a game of Walsingham ; the latter declaring it a game 
adapted to the meanest capacity, at which the novice was nearly 
on a par with the experienced. Douglass watched it narrowly, 
and believing him, soon opposed him, and n^t with a serious 
opposition. 

Time, and paying for experience, has since taught him that 
there is no game on the cards more difficult to play than ecarte. 
There are about a hundred intricacies in the game ; and, simple 
as it appears, no game requires more study. Those who have 
seen the celebrated German Jew transferring the wealth of others 
to his own pockets by the dexterous management of these live 
pieces of painted pasteboard, giving one game out of five, and 
invariably winning, are aware that some excellence is requisite 
to secure success : and those who have seen the king turned up 
as if by magic, when one party happen to be four, have, until 
they found out that Fortune had nothing to do with it, uttered 
maledictions on the fickle goddess, and believed themselves un- 
fortunate men. In another place may be detailed the numerous 
ways by which the unwary are pillaged; at present let it suffice 
to say, that Douglass played long with Walsingham that even- 
ing, and, owing to the ring system they had agreed upon before, 
he found himself very unfortunate indeed, and a loser of five 
hundred pounds. 


END 0 VOL! ME T. 


WALSINGHAM, 

THE GAMESTER. 


CHAPTER I. 

We left Stanhope and his handsome wife comfortably settled 
in country quarters ; — Stanhope, warm, affectionate, and fond ; 
his wife, cool, calculating, and indifferent. She had every one 
of the sex’s inherent failings which the genius of riindostan 
pronounces as belonging to woman ; and she had no redeeming 
qualities save those of virtue and equality of temper. For the 
first she was indebted to her icicle composition; for the latter, 
to the goodness of Stanhope, who never allowed it to be rufiled 
for a second. 

They had passed their lives in the good old automaton fashion 
of soldiers quartered in a country village. They rose at stated 
limes ; ate at stated limes ; walked at stated limes ; slept at 
stated times ; and so passed life, without any excitement to vary 
it. The new novels were a year old ; and the papers and ma- 
gazines arrived when they had outlived their circulation and 
their novelty. It is no wonder, then, that the arrival of a letter 
from Paris gave a new turn to their ideas. That letter was 
from Julia, and fixed in Stanhope’s mind the resolution of pass- 
ing some time in Paris when his leave should commence, and 
which would be about a month after the masquerade ball men- 
tioned in the last chapter. Even the idea of seeing strange 
places failed to excite Margaret. 

“ Well, Margaret,” said Stanhope, after reading the letter, 
“ I am resolved to give you a run to Paris : you will see your 
old sweetheart Robert, and compare happiness with Julia.” 


4 


WALSINGUAM, 


“ It is a consummate annoyance moving at all, Charles, when 
we are so quiet and so comfortable here.” 

“ But the change, Margaret, will do you a world of good : 
besides which, the life we lead is so dull, and so monotonous, 
that we shall scarcely know how to behave ourselves when we 
get into society. We are at least a year behind our friends the 
Waltons, for we have not seen a political caricature or even 
read of the last fashion : and has the novelty (I thought that 
always was uppermost in a female’s mind) no charms for you ? — 
is it possible that you can be contented in such a hole as this ?” 

“ Before this morning and the receipt of Julia’s letter, Charles, 
you were always preaching the necessity of contentment, until 
you made me feel happy where I am. Now you tell me I am 
to seek excitement in novelty. I am quite contented here ; and 
the very idea of packing up to go such a distance at such a sea- 
son of the year would kill me with apprehension. As to seeing 
Julia and Robert, there can be no necessity for that : Julia says 
she is well, and Robert, we know, was in London the other 
day. I am quite satisfied with their account of themselves, and 
I would rather stay than go.” 

“ Well, well, we will talk of that another lime ; but really the 
sameness of life we lead destroys me. Our utmost intelligence 
consists in some scandal, as disgusting as it is false. The only 
congregation of people we get is in the church and the church- 
yard ; the only virtues we see recorded are engraven on the 
tomb-stones ; and the public is concentrated in the town-crier. 
His vilianous bell is the only music of the village ; and head- 
quarters are so far off, that we never see a uniform excepting on 
the parish beadle. By heavens ! we are never lucky enough to 
see Punch or the children on stilts ; and as for society, we can- 
not even get a hint from that of ‘Useful Knowledge,’ or the 
‘ Suppression of Vice.’ ” 

“ I am sure,” drawled out Margaret, “ 1 don’t want to hear 
from either one or the other.” 

“ Well, Margaret, I wish I had your placidity of temper, and 
your easiness in being pleased ; there must be some hidden 
virtue in the hemming of a handkerchief, which is unknown to 
man : you seem to be happy without ambition, and contented 
without either a change of books or situation. Now, although 
I am independent of any one of my amusements, and since I 
can pore over a book for hours, J may say I am contented ; yet 
I think the contentment would be enhanced by an occasional 
change of scenery : they say fowls become blind on board a 


THE GAMESTER. 


5 


ship from the eternal sameness, and I should not wonder if my 
visual organs showed me nothing but yonder green gate, that 
old oak, and the town-crier. — Oh, here comes that old bore 
Simpson ! — pray what is he always whispering to you?” 

“ Oh, some nonsense about love, and his admiration about my 
beauty,” said Margaret. 

“ The devil he is !” replied Stanhope with some surprise ; 
“ and I suppose he occasionally kisses your hand ?” 

“Sometimes he does,” replied the Snowdrop ; “and once he 
put his hand round my waist and ” 

“Kissed your lips,” interrupted Stanhope, his eyes lighting 
up with jealousy and suspicion. 

“ Yes,” continued Margaret, “ but I pushed him away, and 
told him I did not like it, and he has not done it again — only 
twice : I cannot find out the pleasure of kissing and kissing.” 

“ Tell Mr. Simpson we are not at home, John ; and take 
care you never let him in here again, or you will lose your 
place. Mind what I say, John, — I don’t want his society.” 

“ That is strange !” replied Margaret. “ You just now said 
you wanted more society ; and now you are lessening the num- 
ber by the only agreeable person in the whole village — the only 
person who comes and sits by me, who tells me the news, and 
who is so kind and so attentive, and who — ” 

“Kisses your hand, and then encircles your waist, and then 
kisses you lips, and then — ” 

“ What then ?” said Margaret, more excited than she had ever 
been before. 

“ Then you wonder,” continued Stanhope, “ that I beg he 
will make his visits less frequent, or forego them altogether. 
Pretty Margaret, I am the only person who ought to be so fa- 
voured, and I cannot bear that any others should venture thus 
far upon my preserves. He is a poacher, and wants to make 
game of you ; but he shall find that it is rather dangerous shooting 
without a license. Come, child, do drop that poor old patchwork 
chair ; get on your habit, and we will ride for an hour or two.” 

“ Very well, Charles, my dear ; but I cannot see the amuse- 
ment of riding up and down a parcel of lanes.” 

“ Very true, my love. In summer, and in hot weather, a ride 
up narrow lanes with a tight hat, an impatient horse, a few in- 
sects in your eyes, and an unexpected turnpike to pay of the 
toll of one penny, leaving you, like a Santa Martha musician, 
to rattle your coppers as you ride, and carry a weight which 
would lose a jockey a race ; — that is not either pleasant or 


6 


WALSINGHAM, 


agreeable. But it happens to be winter. Come, come, the 
cold air will do you good : you want exciting — you want 
change of scene.” 

The horses were brought ; Margaret was placed on her sad- 
dle. Her beautiful figure would have arrested the eyes of any 
London admirer, for she was beyond all criticism ; and had her 
heart been capable of warmth, she would have been a prize 
rarely the lot of mortals. But she was as insensible to passion 
as is a statue, and now had become indolent from long inactivity. 
Even Stanhope had collected a little rust on the wheels of life ; 
but whenever he was on horseback, his usual sprightliness re- 
turned, his buoyant spirits effervesced, and he was more like a 
schoolboy than a married man without a family. 

“ Now then, Margaret, my child, come, away we go !” and 
starting off his own horse, Margaret’s followed at a brisk pace, 
whilst Charles, very unlike the attentive lover, led the way, 
hollowing and shouting like a madman. 

The flush on her cheek, from the exercise and the cold, made 
Margaret’s beautiful features still more beautiful ; and when 
Stanhope reined in his horse, he could not help bursting into 
admiration at the sight. “ Margaret,” he said, “I have enticed 
you into this ride in order to enable you to do a good and 
charitable action ; and the benefits the rich bestow are always 
more valued when the hand of beauty dispenses the charily. 
Here is what I wish you to give to poor old Jenkins, whose 
cottage was burnt the other night, and whose poor child suffered 
so much from the fire and the bruises, that its poor little life is 
in danger. I know you rejoice at this opportunity of distribut- 
ing a little of what we have to those who are in distress ; and 
you require not the argument which many use, whereby they 
seem more inclined to cover a muititude of sins, than to think of 
the real blessing they thus bestow. You must say something 
kind to the old man, and ask to see his child.” 

“Really it is very cold, Charles,” replied Margaret: “can’t 
we send the money?” 

“You might send the money, certainly,” replied Charles, 
rather quickly ; “ but then the object would be defeated — no- 
thing tends more to alleviate distress than to see the eye of 
beauty moistening at the sad recital. No, no ; we are not more 
than three miles distant; and the very circumstance of your 
riding so far in such cold weather, will doubly enhance the 
value of the gift. — Come — forward.” 

Both horses pattered along the lanes. The rosy flush of 


THE GAMESTER* 


7 


health was in their cheeks ; the aninnation of an intelligent mind 
sparkled in the quick eye of Stanhope, and as he cantered by 
the side of his beautiful wife, he occasionally prepared her for 
the scene. 

“ You must expect to see a sad sight,” he resumed. Poor 
old Jenkins has lost his all, and his wife is old and unable to 
work : a heartless villain has availed himself of the old man’s 
poverty to entice his eldest daughter from him, nine months 
since ; and this, added to his infirmities, the fire, his wife’s sor- 
rows, and his youngest child’s indisposition, has bowed him to 
the dust. I fear you will have occasion to summon all your 
energy of mind ; for a greater picture of distress one can scarce- 
ly imagine, and your heart is so good that you must poignantly 
feel for the miseries of your fellow-creatures.” 

No gentle squeeze of the hand thanked him for his kindness 
or his feeling, no eye sparkling with moisture confessed how 
much she felt even at the preparation for wo ; but she merely 
said that “ she wished she were back again, for the distance 
seemed great in such cold weather, and that really she could see 
no difference between giving or sending the money.” 

“ It will teach us to be contented with our lot in life,” conti- 
nued Stanhope ; “ and you will see with what satisfaction you 
will remember this ride. Poor old fellow, after toiling up the 
hill as he has done, to find himself at the end of sixty years of 
struggling just where he began — in all probability worse, for he 
has still four children and a decrepit wife to provide for ! See, 
Margaret, here is the place where the poor old fellow’s cottage 
stood, and now not a vestige of it is left ; and observe where the 
walk nicely trimmed with box still points out the way to that 
black patch on which formerly stood his home. Many and 
many’s the time has the poor fellow run to welcome his chil- 
dren, as they came bounding along the path to meet him on his 
return from his daily labours, to receive his welcome kiss, 


“ Dear, dear Charles, what a pretty bird that is sitting on that 
bush to the right !— do look I” 

“It is a robin,” replied Stanhope; and looking with a mix- 
ture of surprise and displeasure at his wife, he urged his horse 
on, and they shortly arrived at the door of the hut where the 
unfortunate man resided. 

“ Here my lad,” said Charles, “ hold these horses, and walk 
them gently about,” addressing a lad of about fourteen years 
old; “and take care not to let them catch cold. — Come, Mar- 


8 


WALSINGHAM, 


garet,” and he assisted his wife to dismount; “ now don’t let 
your feelings overcome you, but nerve yourself up to see the 
wretchedness, to speak kindly, to appear to share their misfor- 
tunes.” 

They entered the hut. In an old chair, apparently too fra- 
gile to bear her weight, sat the old woman : she was spinning : 
but the vacancy of her eye soon betrayed that her misfortunes 
had pressed more heavily upon her than even Stanhope had ima- 
gined. Jenkins was seated near a small round deal table, on 
which was a Bible ; and in a corner of the room were two chil- 
dren about the ages of ten and eleven, playing with a heap of 
shells, and prattling, away quite unconscious of their misery. 
“ Jenkins,” said Stanhope, — (the old man stood upright and 
smoothed down his hair as he made a bow to his visiter,) — “ I 
am come with my wife to inquire after you and your family, 
and to give you that assistance which I hope will make you a 
litllq more comfortable than at present.” As he said this. Stan- 
hope looked round the room, and certainly saw no articles of 
luxury by which he could have inferred that the family knew 
the blessings of comfort. The hut only contained one room ; 
and in that one room the children and the parents were shelter- 
ed, fed, and slept. 

Jenkins bowed again to Margaret, and shook his head, indi- 
cating that no human power could restore him to happiness. 

“Come, cheer up, cheer up !” said Stanhope; “you must 
not allow the calamity to weigh you down ; you must struggle, 
if only for your family’s sake, and all your neighbours will 
cheerfully assist you.” 

“ It’s all of no use,” said the poor old fellow ; “ it’s here, 
sir,” (putting his hand to his heart,) — “it’s here, sir. I’ve no 
spirit to do any thing. And .there’s my poor old wife — she’s 
happy now ; though, thank God ! she’s lost all her remem- 
brance like ; and she sometimes sings and cries all at once. 
She does not know you are here, but she spins all day without 
noticing no one ; and when I call her by her name, she looks 
for all the world like one of the people they call idiots. I’ve 
seen her laugh by the hour: and when she eats, it’s not like a 
Christian ; she snatches it all — ay, even from her children.” 
Here poor old Jenkins turned away and wiped his eyes ; then 
he continued : “ But I thank you, sir, and you, pretty madam, 
for coming to see the old and the distressed ; and God take you 
under his precious protection for it!” 

Stanhope was deeply affected; but Margaret seemed more 


THE GAMESTER. 


9 


careful to keep her habit from contamination, than in either 
listening to the old man, or heeding the old woman ; although, 
now, from curiosity more than feeling, she went near the old 
dame and looked* at her. 

“ Yes, sir,” continued Jenkins ; “ I could have borne it all, 
had my son been back from the Indies, where he went as a 
sailor ; or if,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper, as if 
fearing his wife might catch the sound, “ that villain had not 
ruined my Susan. He took her from us when her help was 
most wanted, about eight months since ; and now he has sent 
her back to us quite broken-hearted — so sick she can’t move. 
And this it was that struck Aer” (pointing to his wife.) “It 
was an awful scene, and my old heart nearly burst when I for- 
gave her. She lost her reason, like, ever since ; and Susan was 
too overcome to live here, so we put her with Dame Wilkinson, 
where she lies sick and unable to move.” 

“ My poor fellow,” said Stanhope, “ you must not dwell 
upon this sad story so much. Your Susan has returned to you 
a forgiven daughter, and you must now console and comfort 
her ; she will soon recover her health, and then she will be 
anxious to repair the injury she has done you, and still be the 
prop of your old age.” 

“ Thank you very kindly, sir. I’m sure I do, for all you say: 
but no, no, she never can be to me what she has been ! Only 
think, sir, what you would suffer if some artful villain had se- 
duced your sister — had left her to shame,” (here Stanhope be- 
came dreadfully agitated,) “ had ruined her for ever — had made 
her whole family wretched ! — and then,” continued the old man, 
raising his hands, “ to leave her broken-hearted, broken with 
sickness, without a penny, in the County Hospital! — You 
tremble, sir, do sit down : why, you look all death like.” 

These words recalled the attention of Margaret, who had 
been busily employed in making a piece of paper, which had 
been substituted for a pane of glass, a kind of ventilator by loos- 
ening the corner. She saw her husband pale — nay, nearly 
fainting, gasping for breath ; the real cause never occurred to 
her, for she had not paid the least attention to the scene around 
her, and she attributed it to the confined stale of the hut. The 
door was thrown open, and some water in a cup soon restored 
him. 

“ It is nothing,” Stanhope continued, “my dear; I am now 
quite myself again : the heat of the hut,” (there was hardly fire 
enough to have warmed a chestnut,) “ and my agitation. But 


10 


WALSINGHAM, 


go on, Jenkins, and tell me all about it ; — and cheer up, and 
take care of your old wife, for she seems very much overcome.” 

Here the old woman got up : she was nearly double with 
age : she hobbled to the window and looked out, — then turned 
towards her visiters, but she never noticed them ; and as she 
went back to her chair to continue her avocation, she sang in a 
croaking voice, “ ‘ When black-eyed Susan came on board, — all 
in the Downs, — quick as lightning on the deck he stands ” 
then joining the ends of the hemp, she continued spinning. 

“It’s an old song my boy used to sing,” said Jenkins ; “ she 
remembers a word or two, but it’s all wrong — I know it well ; 
— but it’s Susan she’s a thinking upon. I’ll tell you all about 
it, sir. It was about fourteen days ago, that Mr. Williams, our 
parish parson, came to us, just the same as you might do to- 
day, and he says, says he, ‘ Jenkins, I have known you these 
last forty years, and I never heard a word against your charac- 
ter; you have acted like a good man on every occasion, and 
now affliction has come upon you, the hand of friendship will 
be extended towards you ; I have brought you some money I 
have collected from my neighbours, and this will help you to 
buy some furniture to put in your new hut.’ You see, sir, I 
lost every thing by the fire, — I didn’t so much as save a chair ; 
and if dame’s spinning-wheel had not been standing outside the 
cottage, it would have been lost too. ‘ Now sit down,’ said the 
parson, ‘ for I want to speak to you about some other business.’ 
Well, sir, I did as he desired, and he drew a chair close to ^me, 
and took my hand. ‘ Jenkins,’ says he, ‘ is there any sin which 
you have committed for which you pray God to pardon you ?’ 
and he looked me full in the face. 

“ ‘ Many, sir,’ says I ; ‘for no man can say he has never 
done nothing wrong: and I hope God will forgive me, as I for- 
give those who have wronged me.’ 

“ ‘ That is,’ continued the parson, ‘ spoken like a pious good 
man, and it will not be unrecorded in heaven. But you have 
another to forgive, Jenkins : you must,’ said he, grasping my 
hand, ‘ you must see your daughter, and forgive her !’ I shook 
my head. ‘ You must, Jenkins ; as you hope for forgiveness of 
your own sins hereafter, so must you pardon hers. He has left 
her, he has deserted her already ; and to whom can she apply, 
if her own parents disregard her prayer V 

“I shook and trembled just as you did just now, sir. I did 
not know what to say ; I couldn’t refuse, and yet I felt very bit- 
ter against her. I looked at him steadfastly, and I said, ‘ I can 


THE GAMESTER. 


11 


do it ; although I don’t think dame can : she has cursed her for 
ever — she has put a mother’s curse upon her, and Susan never 
can be happy whilst it is so.’ 

“‘It was wrong, very wrong of her,’ replied the parson : 
!f ‘have you not read in that volume, “Judge not, lest ye be 
j judged,” and “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord'?” Go, Jen- 
I kins, tell your wife I want to speak to her ; and after I have 
f spoken to her for five minutes, do you come in.’ 

“ I called the dame, who was hobbling about after one of the 
; children ; and the parson soon convinced her she had done 
wrong, and settled that the next day we were both to go to the 
hospital, and see her, and forgive her. Well, sir, the morning 
came, and dame was afraid to go. She said that all the people 
would point at her as the mother of Susan, and that she knew 
she could not abide it: but I said we had promised the parson, 
and so on ; and at last we set out. I thought I should have 
died when I saw the building ; and dame staggered so, I could 
scarcely keep her on her legs. There was no one to say a 
word to us, but one woman, who led us to a small room, and 
then left us, saying that the parson would be there in a mo- 
ment. 

“ Dame never spoke ; but she sobbed bitterly : and when- 
ever I began to comfort her, I somehow couldn’t do it neither, 
— my heart was so full, and I felt so sick, and such a weight 
upon my breast, that I cried too ; and there we were when the 
parson came in. He goes up to dame, and takes her hand, and 
tells her to dry her eyes and be a woman ; that the act she was 
about to perform was a duty ; that Susan was bitterly a peni- 
tent ; and that there was more joy in heaven over one sinner 
who repented, than over ninety and nine just men who needed 
no repentance. 

“‘I wanted your daughter to come to you,’ he said; ‘but 
she is too weak, and so you must go to her.’ Dame gets up, 
and I followed close behind ; but he told me not to come upon 
the poor girl all at once. Well, we gets to the door, and we 
sees Susan sitting on the bed, a crying her eyes out, with her 
handkerchief afore them ; and when dame sees this, she stopped 
and shook her head, and said she could not speak to Susan. I 
said, ‘Go, go, dame, and comfort her poor soul!’ And so she 
went, just step by step, until she touched her; and then she 
fell into her arms, and wept and wept; and I came directly, 
and we forgave her. She blessed us ; and I — yes, I, her father, 
did bless her. And the parson, with the tears a running down 


12 


WALSINGHAM, 


his cheeks, tried to bless us too; but his words were thick, and 
I couldn’t make them well out.” Here the old man stopped, 
and Stanhope added his tears. He turned away his head ; and 
as he removed his handkerchief, he saw his wife, who had not 
paid the slightest attention, tickling the children with her horse- 
whip, and quite in raptures when they scratched without detect- 
ing her. 

“ Ah, well sir. I’m sure I thank you for those tears : it was 
a sight to see ; and all dame’s wrath went away directly she 
touched her own daughter. Susan fell back overcome like, and 
fainted straight away ; and dame, she looked on just as she does 
now at your wife there. There was no life in her eye — it 
seemed as if she saw nothing at all ; for when Susan was lifted 
to another bed where there was no pillow, to lay her quite flat 
and rub her forehead, dame remained looking at the empty bed; 
and when the parson goes to her, he finds her all wrong here, 
sir,” pointing to his head: “ she was a looking, and a singing, 
‘ Susan ! Susan ! lovely dear 1’ ” — And here the old woman, as 
if the words struck upon the nerve of memory, croaked, “ Su- 
san ! Susan ! lovely dear !” and then looked full in the faces 
of her husband and Stanhope, with an eye of vacancy shock- 
ingly appalling ; then took up another tune — 

“ I jolly tar with the trousers on, — 

I jolly tar, on board a man-of-war, 

Would kiss a pretty girl with the trousers on t” 

“ Ah ! there it is, sir, again 1 that’s what my boy used to sing 
to the children to make them dance, and she has not forgot that. 
She came away with me from the hospital, sir, just as you see 
her now ; and she never has done nothing since but sing and 
spin. She can’t recollect her daughter ; for the other day I 
took her over to the cottage, and she looked at Susan, and Su- 
san cried to see she had made her mother an idiot like : and it 
was no use for her lo take her hand and kiss it, and call ‘Mother! 
mother !’ dame did not heed it; and when looking her afflicted 
cliild full in the face, she sang, ‘ My vows shall ever true re- 
main and Susan, who thought dame meant it for the curse 
like, fell back again ; and I don’t think she will be alive next 
Monday, and that day is her nineteenth birthday. — That’s all of 
it, sir: and, God kirows, it must be something more than a man 
lo bear all that has happened, and what is to happen ; for I 
somehow feel every now and then a kind of a tremble, which is 


THE GAMESTER. 


13 


not like the old ague I used to have. — But, dear heart ! what is 
dame about ?” 

The old woman had left her spinning, which she did quite 
mechanically ; the hemp had been all spun, and she was in 
search of some more, when, in going to the corner where the 
two children were playing, and Margaret was contributing to 
amuse them, the dame, somewhat astonished at the odd figure 
of Margaret, took hold of her arm, and turned her face towards 
her. Stanhope, who saw it, said quickly, “ Don’t stir, my 
dear, or you’ll frighten her. She will not hurt you ; speak to 
her kindly.” 

The old woman, after looking some time, seemed endeavour- 
ing to remember the features, and for a moment there appeared 
a ray of intellect in her eye ; and then wildly seizing Margaret 
by the arm, she said, “ ‘ Susan ! Susan ! — ’ ” and then relapsing 
into her former aberration, continued singing — “ ‘ lovely dear ! 
my vows shall ever — ’” she broke off with, “ ‘I jolly tar, on 
board a man-of-war,’ ” and went to a small shelf, from the top 
of which she took some more hemp, and returning to her wheel, 
continued her only avocation. 

“ Do, Charles,” said Margaret, quite frightened at what had 
occurred, “ do leave this : I am so alarmed ! You must come, 
my dear ; and you can ride over here again to-morrow : but I 
cannot bear her eyes — they look so dead.” 

Poor old Jenkins turned away to wipe another and another 
tear. Stanhope took his hand, and pointing to the Bible, which 
still stood open on the small round table, said, “ You must seek, 
my poor old friend 1 for real consolation there. But you shall 
not want what little the world can give. I think I know of a 
cottage not far from this at a small rent, and which has a garden 
and more rooms. — But I will come over and see you again 
soon.” As he said this, he shook him warmly by the hand ; 
and leading Margaret to the door, who made a kind of timid 
bow, she was placed upon her horse, and the visiters were soon 
at a distance from that scene of wo and wretchedness. 

For some lime Stanhope could not speak ; and when he did, 
it was merely an ejaculation, such as — “ dreadful !” “ horrid !” 
“ misery !” until, passing the place where the old cottage stood, 
and in which Jenkins had passed his prime of years and man- 
hood, he again stopped his horse, and commenced some obser- 
vations on the uncertainty of the enjoyments of this life; when 
Margaret complained of the cold, and Charles increased his pace 
until he arrived at his own house. He assisted his wife from 

VOL. II. 2 


14 


WALSINGHAM, 


her horse, and then seeing her pocket handkerchief in the pocket 
of her saddle, he drew it out, and with it the paper in which was 
the money he had destined for old Jenkins. He looked at her, 
for the noise as the money fell caused her to turn ; his eye was 
a mixture of disappointment and reproach ; but Margaret merely 
said, “ Oh \ I quite forgot it ! another day will do as well and 
arranging the fall of her habit, she walked unconcernedly into 
the house. 

Not so Stanhope ; whose heart was mortified beyond expres- 
sion to find that such a relation of facts could have taken place, 
and that his dear, his fondly-loved Margaret, could turn not only 
a deaf, but an indifferent ear to such a recital. He seized the 
money, jumped again upon his horse, and although the wind 
was high, the night advancing, the cold sleet falling, he started 
off at a gallop, and was soon again at the cottage door. 

“ I have come again, Jenkins, to repair an oversight. I was 
so bewildered by your narrative, that I forgot the chief object of 
my visit. Here, my good old man, take this ; and I will soon 
place you in a better situation.” 

He looked round the solitary room : the old woman was still 
at her wheel, the children still occupied the corner, the Bible 
was open, and before Jenkins could thank him, the dame had 
again sung, “ Susan ! Susan ! lovely dear !” 

With a heart oppressed, he turned his horse’s head towards 
home; and, not heeding the storm which now fell fast, he walk- 
ed leisurely towards that house in which he had passed so many 
days : he stopped again to view the mark on which poor old 
Jenkins’s cottage had stood, and in which he had passed his 
time, surrounded by his family, and respected by his friends. 

In reviewing the painful scene he had that day witnessed, the 
mind of Stanhope naturally reverted to the cold indifference of 
his wife ; — even he who loved as few have ever loved, whose 
whole heart was that of open, honest, and brave manhood — to 
whose eye the tear of pity would mount unbidden, who could 
not hear of the distresses of others without sighing to relieve 
them, — even his heart misgave him, when he saw in remem- 
brance, whilst the tears were coursing down the cheeks of Jen- 
kins and himself, the cold indifferent figure of Margaret as she 
played with the children, and could abstract herself from the 
scene around her. “ She wants energy,” he said to himself as 
he bowed his head down to keep the snow from his face, “ she 
wants exciting; she has lived so long amongst these people that 
she has forgotten all but herself : and we must go to Paris, — 


THE GAMESTER. 


16 


we must change our residence.” And as he urged his horse to 
i a quicker pace in order to gain his liome before the night had 
thoroughly set in, he determined to solicit leave of absence for 
three months, and endeavour to warm the heart of his wife by 
the attractions of friendship. Julia and Margaret had never met 
since their marriage ; and the sprightly Julia might animate the 
cold heart of the beautiful girl, and thus render Stanhope hap- 
pier in the possession of a treasure on which he so much doat- 
ed, but who that day had certainly not gained much in his esti- 
( malion. 


CHAPTER II. 

Walsingham now appeared in a different character. Former- 
ly his equipage was humble, a kind of cabriolet de remise was 
his only vehicle : but now he drove to the hotel in a cabriolet 
of his own ; his person bedizened with silks and chains, his 
dress neater ; his servant a grown tiger with a gaudy livery, 
standing behind the vehicle, courting general observation, — thus, 
as he thought, enhancing the quality of his master. But it was 
a remark of Vidocq, who certainly had sufficient opportunities 
of knowing the materials of which his strange countrymen are 
compounded, that “ whenever, in Paris^ a man was seen with 
a gaudy cabriolet, with a servant standing behind it conspicu- 
ously dressed, the master was a swindler P And this remark 
was elicited from him when one of our countrymen was endea- 
vouring to trace a worthless fellow who had passed himself off 
as the son of one of the most respectable people in France; 
and who, having introduced himself as such, had received the 
fortune of the lady he had promised to marry, had squandered 
or concealed the money, and then refused to fulfil his promise. 
It was to Vidocq that the Englishman applied ; and that shrewd 
man, after asking several questions concerning the dress of the 
master and servant, the colour of the cabriolet, and this peculiar 
one — “ Does he drive his servant inside, or does he stand be- 
hind?” and being answered that the servant invariably stood be- 
hind, replied, “ C'est un chevalier dHndustrieP 

This alteration in the dress was the consequence of his sue- 


16 


WALSINGHAM, 


cess in teaching Douglass ecarle ; and the old saying, that one 
must always pay for his own experience, was here fully exem- 
plified. If one lesson had sufficed, perhaps the loss would not 
have signified ; but it was followed by another and another ; and 
the new cabriolet, the frequent boxes at the various theatres — 
the whole altered man, was the result of continued ill fortune on 
one side, and of unparalleled success on the other. Robert was 
minus three thousand pounds, which had changed hands and 
was now quietly nursing for the future fortune of Walsingham ; 
and as each accumulation to his store, in equal proportion rose 
the one and sank the other, so the one became a little less a fa- 
vourite, and the other felt all the keenness of revenge, and all 
the wish of the foolish to endeavour, by persevering, to regain 
his losses. Douglass in this was artfully seconded by the very 
person who was picking his pocket ; for occasionally he rose a 
winner, perhaps of fifty or a hundred pounds ; but assuredly 
this was retaken with sufficient interest the evening following: 
and thus two evils grew more formidable— one, the constant 
companionship of Walsingham, and the growing attachment of 
Amelia ; th.e other, the continual drain on the resources of Ro- 
bert, who had long since abandoned the idea of living on his in- 
come, and, like all gamblers, was squandering his principal by 
wholesale. Affairs were in this state, one evening, when Ro- 
bert and Walsingham were playing in the Salon, the ladies 
were together in Julia’s room ; and having dismissed the inqui- 
sitive attendant, Julia began : — 

“ Well, my pretty Amelia, I think before long we shall have 
to hurry your brother over here. It is needless for you to dis- 
guise your feelings for Mr. Walsingham; and without being 
much of a Solomon, I might say, that, under all the circum- 
stances of the case, he must already have made you sensible of 
his attachment — perhaps he has spoken?'' 

“ No, Julia, on my honour he has not. He certainly has 
gone so near the words, without requiring or pressing an an- 
swer, that I have latterly become more bold, and I do not feel 
the tremor I did feel the first time I was ever alone with him. 
Latterly he has become a little more distant, and has returned to 
the cold formality of ‘ Miss Stanhope whereas he did once or 
twice call me his Amelia.” 

“And, Amelia, do you really love him? Come, don’t blush, 
there is no one here to betray you ; between us surely there 
can be no secrets. I, although as young as yourself within a 
year, am your protector. You are here under my wing ; and I 


THE GAMESTER. 


17 


know you would not conceal from your Julia what friendship 
has made me ask.” 

“ There can be no shame in the confession to you, Julia ; and 
I frankly own I did love him — truly, sincerely !” 

“ That is right, my dear Amelia — did indeed ! We are now 
informed of your feelings, and we must be careful you are not 
slighted ; but tell me, has he ever spoken to you of his family 
or his connexions ? because it has appeared to me rather odd 
that in all his communication with Robert, he never has once 
mentioned them.” 

“Yes,” replied Amelia; “one day in the Louvre he spoke 
of his father as very infirm — that he was Sir William Walsing- 
ham ; but that unforturmtely they were not on the best of terms, 
arising from the wish of his father that he should marry some 
heiress wdiose estate adjoined his own ; but that he, although 
he poignantly felt the breach between himself and his parent, 
(and he really was very much overcome when he spoke of it,) 
— yet that he never could offer his hand to her, more especially 
since he had seen me.” 

“ Well, Amelia, that was as near an offer direct as ever I 
heard — what did you answer?” 

“ Nothing at all,” replied Amelia ; “ and although he squeezed 
my hand gently, and I felt a slight tremor myself, yet we nei- 
ther of us continued the subject. He seemed, poor fellow, quite 
distressed when he spoke of his father, and 1 was glad to spare 
him any further grief on my account. He remarked that I was 
unwilling to increase his pain, and finished by saying, “Well, 
one day the property must be mine — and that day is not far 
distant.” 

“ Is he very amusing, Amelia, in his conversation 1 for latterly 
he has become very quiet, and he seems so earnest in every 
thing he does, that since they have played at ecarte for five- 
franc pieces one hears not a word but ‘ propose.’ ” 

“ That is precisely what I do not hear,” replied Amelia, 
laughing; “but latterly during the evening, since the detestable 
card-table has been the mutual object of both Robert and Adol- 
phus, they seem whilst they shuffle the pack — to cut us.” 

“ That is a dear pretty name, Amelia: — Adolphus Walsing- 
ham, — Sir Adolphus, I should say, — will sound well ; and even 
your brother, fastidious as he is, will never object to a fine-look- 
ing baronet with a co^mfortable estate. But did he speak of his 
present fortune ?” 

“ Yes,” replied Amelia ; “ he seemed resolved to act most 

2 * 


18 


WALSINGHAM, 


honourably in making his approaches. He told me he was now 
a beggar, merely vegetating on two thousand a year ; but, that 
he managed, by great caution and economy, to exist : that the 
fact was, he knew so many of the poor nobility, to whom it was 
really charity to give a dinner occasionally, that they quite 
-drained his resources, and left him a Paris, instead of a parish, 
pauper.” 

“ 1 remarked at the opera,” continued Julia, “ that he seemed 
well acquainted with all the performers ; and his taste in music 
is undeniable. In all the really beautiful parts, I remarked, he 
awakened your attention ; and he seemed evidently not only to 
enjoy, but to understand the music. It is true, almost all young 
men of fashion pretend to both ; but you discover their ignorance 
as easily as the traveller discovered the monkey in man’s clothes, 
who had forgotten to hide his tail.” 

“ He does talk well, certainly,” replied Amelia ; “ I never 
knew a man who riveted the attention more to the subject : and 
yet he is so light and trivial at times, that he contrives to keep a 
smile upon my countenance even when otherwise I should be 
thoughtful and reserved.” 

“ You know, Amelia, that we women have the-reputation of 
excessive curiosity ; and therefore I know you will grant the 
favour I am about to ask. You know how young I was courted, 
asked, and married ; and you know that Robert was the only 
person — the only man, I may say — who ever addressed a word 
of kindness to me. Now I have a curiosity beyond expression 
to know how another man converses when he is truly in love ; 
and as I think that Walsingham most certainly does admire you 
excessively, I want you to grant me the request.” ^ 

“ And how,” interrupted Amelia, “ is this to be accom- 
plished ?” 

“ Nothing more easy,” continued Julia. “ We are exactly of 
a height ; our voices are similar ; and even were our figures so 
very different, the long robe of the domino would conceal it. 
On the night of the masquerade, we will be both dressed exactly 
alike ; and you shall make Walsingham acquainted that you 
intend to wear a small white jessamine in your band. We will 
come into the room together, and enter the masquerade together : 
then Walsingham will select me, for I will wear the flower; 
and when I am satisfied with his soft nothings, I can transfer 
them to you, and he will never discover the cheat. 

“ I agree, rny dear Julia, I agree. But suppose at that very 
time he should declare his affections for me ?” 


THE GAMESTER. 


19 


“ Why, then, I will accept him, Amelia ; and you will not be 
the first girl who has been proposed for to a mother, or accepted 
by a friend. Gratify me only in this : it is perhaps a foolish 
request ; but somehow I have a kind of presentiment that some- 
thing ludicrous will occur, and we will puzzle these lords of the 
creation by the cross questions and crooked answers which must 
necessarily follow.” 

“ But, Julia, act the part well; — 1 imagine that he has de- 
ferred speaking until that night. You shall have him for an 
hour— which to me will appear an age : and mind you tremble 
properly, and feel very giddy, if he should propose. Do act 
well, and I dare say, with your experience, you will surpass the 
reality. 8o good night ; for these gamblers for sous must be 
tired of that foolish game before now, and 1 may be surprised in 
this improper dress by your staid and sobered husband.”"^ 

Very different was the scene in the saloon. There sat two 
determined gamesters : the retreat of the ladies had released 
them from the necessity of concealing their stakes, and they 
were now playing for two hundred pounds the best of five 
games. Hitherto the luck had rather favoured Walsin-gham ; 
and Robert, who played neither coolly nor judiciously, vented 
his spleen at the eternal tide of ill-luck which seemed set against 
him now and always. Like all men who cannot command their 
tempers under the grievance of loss, he declared it useless to 
propose, for Walsingham always took in such brilliant cards ; 
and if by any chance, when two tricks had been won by each, 
Walsingham happened to have the ten of the same suit of which 
Robert had the nine, he of course declared himself the most un- 
fortunate man in the world. This irascibility of temper enabled 
Walsingham to play to a greater certainty; and, what with 
superior skill, what with a little sleight-of-hand, and what with 
tile reckless manner of Robert, that evening closed at midnight, 
and about twelve hundred pounds went into W'alsingham’s 
pockets. 

“ You are indeed, my dear sir,” said Walsingham, “ more 
unfortunate than any man I ever opposed : I am generally a 
losing player, but with your cards the German Jew could not 
win. 1 really feel quite ashamed of receiving this large sum.” 
Saying which, he folded the check upon Lafitte’s house and 
placed it carefully in his pocket ; whilst Douglass, eyeing him 
with a malicious vengeance, could not suppress his feelings. 

“ It is devilish odd, Walsingham, that whenever we play for 
small stakes you invariably allow me to win !” 


20 


WALSINGHAM, 


Allow you to win!” retorted Walsingham ; “you may 
spare me that compliment, for I endeavour to win every game 
we play. 1 am not like a cringing aide-de-camp playing chess 
with his general, who fights him to a pawn, and then acciden- 
tally loses the game. Had you played as you played formerly 
at the Salon, with the luck you have had since your return, you 
would have been ruined without redemption.” 

“ This eternal run,” replied Douglass, “ will soon effect ray 
ruin. Since my first arrival in Paris, and that is only three 
months in all, I have lost upwards of thirty thousand pounds — 
very nearly half my fortune, for my estate does not yield me a 
farthing, or at least very little indeed, and the improvements have 
swallowed up the revenue. — But aw^ay with this sad retro- 
spection ! — it is needless. If I go on a tthis rate, I must find 
some method of living, and, I suppose, like all gamesters, be- 
come a swindler.” A slight blush flew over the face of Wal- 
singham ; but it found the cheeks too cold and left them on the 
instant. 

“ However,” continued Douglass, “ I am resolved to have 
one great coup at the Salon the night of the masquerade. I 
must get a domino with two colours, black outside and scarlet 
within, which I can change as I like : I can easily cbnceal 
another mask under my dress : and thus I can elude the vigi- 
lance of my wife and that sharp-eyed Amelia. You must go 
unmasked, Walsingham.” 

“ Not I indeed ; I am rather too well known for that ; I 
should be pestered out of my life. No ; let us go exactly the 
same : I will have a scarlet-lined domino, and I will get four 
masks exactly the same : — in short, leave it to me. We can 
then if we feel disposed, have some amusement with the ladies, 
and can find out some of the secrets of the prison-house. I do 
think Miss Stanhopea most enchanting creature, and I anticipate 
some glorious fun on that night.” 

“ I shall leave the fun to you, Walsingham, for play I must 
and will ; and if I lose, I may then think of retiring for life.” 

No sooner had Walsingham taken his departure than a gleam 
of reason occurred to Robert. He saw himself gradually sinking; 
he saw that in avoiding public play he had fallen into worse 
company. The saying of the old gentleman at the dinner often 
came to his recollection — the hint which he threw out relative 
to the respectability of Walsingham — his unaccountable good 
fortune, and his almost certainty of turning the king if he dealt 
when his score was at four ; yet had he watched him and watched 


THE GAMESTER. 


21 


him narrowly. Then came the apprehension of Douglass that, 
should Walsingham be a wolf in disguise, he might have sacri- 
ficed Amelia : for he saw with pain that she no longer listened 
to him, but that she had been fascinated by the manner of Wal- 
singham. This he resolved to fathom ; and thus pondering over 
past events, and having before his eyes the more cheerful rain- 
bow of hope, he retired to bed at one in the morning, agitated 
by his loss, burning for revenge, and nurturing a hatred for 
Walsingham. 

The slight indisposition of his wife gave Robert an opportunity 
of an hour’s quiet conversation with Amelia on the following 
morning. There she was, redolent of beauty, her dark eyes 
sparkling with animation, her spirits high, her manner enchant- 
ing; and in her society Douglass lost the dreary recollection of his 
continued misfortune, and once again became both gay and lively. 

“ Now, little darling,” he said as he took the small hand of 
Amelia, “ I am going to enact father to you, and I expect you 
will make a proper confession : so begin at once. I shall not 
be oyer hard in my punishments : twenty or thirty Ave Marias 
would only occupy your time for an hour.” 

“ Indeed, Padre Robert,” replied the gay girl, when I con- 
fess, it will be to my lover.” 

“ And am not I, Amelia, an admirer — perhaps a—” 

Amelia put her small hand over his mouth, and said, “ Don’t 
confess to me what I should be obliged to punish with the 
greatest severity.” 

“And if I did,” continued Douglass, “ you could only inflict 
one punishment which would dishearten me ; and that would 
be, forbidding me your company.” 

A strange tremor agitated the frame of Amelia, a sudden blush 
suffused her cheek, and in endeavouring to conceal her confusion 
she made it the more evident. Robert perceived it — at once he 
imagined that Amelia loved him ; and although in that moment 
his reason might have strayed, yet he could not but be aware of 
the increased pulsation of his own blood. For a moment both 
were silent and both confused ; but those who have accustomed 
themselves to study the human heart might have fancied they 
discerned in the distraction of both, that Douglass had betrayed 
the secret of his heart, and that the secret was not credited by 
Amelia. 

“ Amelia,” he said as he pressed her hand, “ look at me, my 
little angel.” The brightness of her eye was dimmed by a fal- 
ling tear, her face was flushed, her lips were apart, and her teeth 


22 


WALSINGHAM, 


shone like the polished ivory. She did not speak ; and in that 
silence was the worst of confessions — the most eloquent of ac- 
knowledgments. 

“ Amelia,” he continued, “ I have watched you narrowly 
lately ; my mind has been employed in ascertaining if you really 
loved Walsingham. That you do love him I am convinced, 
and my object in this conversation is to elicit that fact.” 

“ Love Am,” replied Amelia : “ I could have loved him ; 
but — ” 

“ But what, my angel ?” 

“ That 1 dare not — cannot tell you,” she replied. “ Nay, I 
think until the night before last I did esteem him, and even told 
Julia that I loved him sincerely ; but — ” 

“ Then,” replied Douglass, “ it is only something which oc- 
curred within a short period of time that has altered your affec- 
tions.” 

“ Only^'* replied Amelia ; “ but 1 fear that only may lead to 
your destruction. I almost doubt his being an honourable man. 
You start ; but listen. Yesterday, when you and Julia went to 
the Rue Vivienne to buy those artificial flowers, and I was left 
alone at home, I, as usual, began to practise my singing, and 
was secure from intrusion, as the hour was earlier than he 
generally came. I was startled by a ring at the door-bell, and 
before I could remove myself into another room Mr. Walsing- 
ham was by my side. His first inquiries were for you ; but I 
found out, as we prolonged our conversation, that he had seen 
you walking through the Place de la Bourse. He sat by my 
side, and after some trivial remarks about the masquerade to- 
morrow night, and his leaving the tickets, he began in that low 
sweet voice of his to talk of love. I cannot repeat all he said ; 
but this he did, — he ridiculed marriage, and in glowing terms 
quoted poetry to casta sneer upon love when shackled. I own 
I was much fascinated by the manner in which he repeated the 
lines, and I dare say I might have encouraged his continuation 
from my attention to him ; but suddenly he knelt before me, 
and just as he was about to falsify his quotation by offering me 
his hand, — for that must have been his object, — you returned. 
But say not a word — I have a trap laid for him in which he will 
fall : promise me, as you love me, not to say one word to him ; 
leave him to me : I dare say you think me passionately fond of 
him — and so I am still ; I cannot tear him from me, for I feel 
my affection fixed upon him. I love you, it is true,” she con- 


THE GAMESTER, 


23 


tinued, smiling, “ but only as I should love my father confessor 
and my friend.” 

j “ What !” replied Douglass, “ only that !” 

I “ Do not continue,” said Amelia, “ or I must inflict the pu- 
i nishment of banishment. — How dare you, sir,” she said laugh- 
ingly, “ talk of love even to me ? I am a droll girl, I know ; but 
; I am one who, independent of the ties of virtue and religion, can 
take advantage of the experience of others.” 

“ But, Amelia,” replied Robert, “ what has all this to do with 
leading to my destruction ?” 

“ That is a question I will not answer until the day after to- 
morrow. Now I must go and see Julia. Remember I have 
said that I love yolt; so I trust I shall have to make no more 
confessions on that account.” 

“ She is an extraordinary girl,” muttered Robert to himself 
when left alone. “ I thought she really did love me, and I might 
have been induced by her beauty to have followed the course of 
young Houghton. I verily believe I am not only a liar, but a 
villain. Here am I, with a wife who loves me beyond the gene- 
ral love of wives — whose only will is to render me happy, whose 
every thought is for my welfare ; and yet am I. such a scoundrel, 
so heartlessly ungrateful, as to confess an attachment to another. 
Now I am cool enough ; but another tremor, another dimmed 
look from Amelia, and since I have ceased to control my feel- 
ings, I would not answer for my affections. When once a man 
consents to follow indiscretion as a guide, what a scoundrel he 
may become !” 

“ Ah, Julia, my only dear, I am glad to see you so soon re- 
covered ! You must keep up your spirits for to-morrow night, 
for I anticipate much amusement from the tom-foolery. How 
is little Houghton ?” 

“ A little better,” replied Julia, “but fretful from the pain of 
his first tooth. Why, where is Amelia?” 

“Has she not been with you, my dear ?” 

“ No,” replied Julia; “ but as she is not here, I will make 
you a confidant in her secret. Husband and wife are legally 
one, and what is entrusted to me is not betrayed by my retail- 
ing it to you. Amelia is in love, desperate with — ” 

“ Walsingham,” interrupted Robert, “it can only be with 
him or myself, for she knows no one else.” 

“ Well, don’t flatter yourself, Robert — it is not you ; but it 
is one of the two persons you mentioned.” 

“ Did she tell you so ?” asked Robert. 


24 


WALSINGHAM, 


“ Yes, the night before last she confessed it to me ; and I, to 
show you a woman can keep a secret, never told you. Had 
you not better write to Charles 

“ Not until he has proposed to marry her,” said Robert: “ I 
can be her guardian and protector until then.” 

“ He is the son of Sir William Walsingham,” continued Julia. 

“Indeed!” replied Robert with some surprise: “ 1 did not 
know that.” 

“ Then you must have known or cared very little about your 
schoolfellow,” — (a slight blush passed over Robert’s face,) — ^ 
“ or you would have known his birth, parentage, and education.” 

“ Faith,” continued Robert, “ I think I do know quite enough 
of him. But if we are to have him as a kind of connexion, we 
may as well make a few more inquiries ; and I shall, by way 
of beginning, write to Stanhope.” 

“ And that, my dear, is what 1 want you to do ; for although 
Amelia has a tender, a good and affectionate heart, yet she is a 
woman : and even I, young as I am, know how little our sex 
are to be depended upon when once they have yielded up their 
affections to men.” 

Douglass left the room, and Julia was alone. She began to 
have some strange misgivings about Walsingham— why she 
knew not, for he was to her the most respectful, the most assi- 
duous of attendants. He was more French than English in his 
endeavours to be useful ; he watched her eyes, and seemed to 
divine her wish ; and if those eternal attentions mentioned by 
the great Master of Love could have weaned Julia from her 
husband, she might have fallen to Walsingham. But she looked 
upon Robert more as a divinity than a man; her whole soul 
was wrapped up in his and his son’s welfare and happiness. She 
saw the marks of care which latterly had increased upon his 
face ; she saw him restless by day, sleepless by night ; and she 
heard, whenever he fell into an unquiet doze, words almost 
inarticulate, but such as her imagination soon suited to a sen- 
tence. The fatal cards were the subject of his dreams ; and 
although she watched him narrowly, and knew that he did not 
play excepting for the trifling sum of five francs w ith Walsing- 
ham, yet she was astonished at the pleasure, at the excitement 
he seemed to experience even for so trivial an amount. 

To question him was useless ; she had tried that over and 
over again. She then had recourse to the child, and by bring- 
ing it frequently to Douglass, she hoped to withdraw his atten- 
tion from that which was evidently near his mind, to the child ; 


THE GAMESTER. 


25 


and here she tried all those little winning affections, which con- 
stitute tiie happiness of domestic life. It was useless : a settled 
kind of melancholy seemed stealing over him ; he was every 
day becoming more and more indifferent to scenes around him; 
his mornings were passed in idleness, and the evening seemed 
to linger, in spite of the song of Amelia or the conversation of 
Julia, until the hour arrived for cards ; then indeed his counte- 
nance lighted up — then he became all animation and attention ; 
and any body but a fond woman might have seen the cause of 
this altered behaviour. Strange however as it may appear, Julia 
placed the whole to a wrong account: she had perceived — and 
where is the jealous woman who allows a glance to go unno- 
ticed ? — that Robert was latterly to be found with Amelia — that 
they spoke low, had intelligible communication by the eyes, 
and that he seized every opportunity of avoiding her for the 
society of her friend. 

There is no true love without a spice of the green-eyed mon- 
ster ; and the ears of the suspicious are quick, and the eyes 
watchful. Julia had that morning been guilty of a meanness in 
endeavouring to overhear the conversation between Amelia and 
her husband ; and her jealousy was more excited from the cau- 
tious tone of the voice, which counteracted all her endeavours. 
Now she cast her eyes over the room as if to find some note 
which might have been left neglected ; and then, with a kind of 
sullen step, she retreated to her greatest comfort in all her afflic- 
tions — her infant. 

She had not left the room a minute before Walsingham en- 
tered ; and he advanced with the light step of a man fearful of 
detection. Amelia had heard the bell, and guessed who was the 
visiter. She approached by another door, which was partially 
open, and she saw him open the card-box, take out the new 
pack and substitute others ; he then carefully closed the box, 
and going to the piano, struck a chord, as if to announce his 
arrival. Amelia shortly afterwards entered the room. 

“ I come. Miss Stanhope,” said Walsingham, “to throw my- 
self at your feet and implore your pardon for the indiscretion of 
which I was guilty yesterday. There are times when the most 
prudent may be overcome by excess of passion ; it is no sin to 
worship an angel, and thus I now defend my own idolatry : 
pray pardon me this once, and my future conduct shall convince 
you how much I regret haying occasioned your displeasure.” 

“ The confession of a folly is the first step towards repent- 
ance,” replied Amelia with a smile : “ pray be seated.” 

VOL. II. 3 


26 


WALSINGHAM, 


“ Then I am to consider that the waters of oblivion have 
washed out the remembrance of my fault?” said Walsingharn. 

“Even so, Mr. Walsingharn; and I shall forget every part 
of yesterday’s conversation : so now let us talk of graver mat- 
ters. The masquerade to-night, — at what time will it be requi- 
site to be there ?” 

“Not before eleven,” replied Walsingharn. But, Miss Stan- 
hope, I have one request to make, — and it shows how bold even 
the repentant may become : — Will you allow me to be your 
protector and guide, — to have the honour of dancing with you, 
—in short, to warn you against those who are unknown, and 
be a kind of master of ceremonies upon this pleasant occasion ? 
Of course you are aware that your mask ought only to be a 
half mask, the lower part consisting of black silk : it gives you 
more air, and is more convenient if you feel inclined to take 
any refreshment without showing your face. I have merely 
mentioned this because I thought you one who would profit 
by the experience of others, and consequently not disdain advice 
although it emanated from me.” 

“I am equally obliged, Mr. Walsingharn, but Julia and my- 
self are going closely masked, and dressed after our own fashion. 
I hope, with all the devotion you have declared, even to idolatry, 
you will not mistake some one else for me.” 

“I warrant, you shall see I know the difference. Surely, in 
the light elastic tread, the angelic figure, the soft voice, the 
manner so natural, and perhaps a glance at some stray portion 
of that raven hair, I can divine you from any other. Besides, 
your eyes are dark as night, and your friend’s are as blue as an 
Italian sky.” 

“ We have invented a plan by which you will not be able to 
discover us by our eyes ; — in short, we have practised our in- 
tended walk, we have tried our voices even before our servant, 
and she has not detected the one from the other : and thus am 
I willing to forewarn yon of the difficulty.” 

“ But we can obviate that,” replied Walsingharn, “ because I 
can hand you from the carriage.” 

“ No, indeed,” replied Amelia ; “ you will, Mr. Walsingharn, 
do no such thing. We intend, when we are dressed, to walk 
into this room, — not to speak one word — to walk arm-in-arrn 
into the masquerade ; and there you may take me, and I will 
cheerfully dance with you, if you can discover me.” 

‘J But let me implore you, my dear Miss Amelia, to think of 
the consequences should I whisper to your friend what I would 


THE GAMESTER. 


27 


were only audible to yourself : she might imagine me capable 
of endeavouring to supplant her husband.' And besides, I must 
tell you that 1 had hoped for this night’s conversation with 
ceaseless anxiety ; and now, when the cup of pleasure is so 
near my lips, to dash it from them is cruel ! Let me implore 
you to give me this slight proof of your esteem, and confide 
some secret mode by which I may know you beyond a doubt.” 
(Here he took her hand and tenderly squeezed it.) “ Nay, 
Amelia, as you value my happiness do not balk my present 
intention.” 

Amelia turned away her head, and curiosity, that fatal gift to 
women, prompted her to say, “ she dared not, for Julia would 
be so angry.” (Still he retained her hand.) 

“ That is half an assent,” replied Walsingham ; “ and Julia’s 
anger can shortly be removed. Once more let me entreat you, 
Amelia, for I confess much of my future happiness depends 
upon this night’s conversation.” 

“ Indeed, Mr. Walsingham, I dare not. And yet,” she 
continued, “ if you promise never to reveal this treachery of 
mine — ” 

“ Never, never, by Heaven !” interrupted Walsingham. 

“ Then I will tell you. I intend to wear this small flower in 
my band ; and going to her desk, she showed one flower of the 
jessamine, so small that it certainly would not have been dis- 
cernible but for the black ground on which the white flower was 
to be placed. “ Thus you will know me. Now mind, Mr. 
Walsingham, I rely upon your honour not to betray the secret 
to Mr. Douglass ; for I could not have been guilty of this indis- 
cretion, had I not — ” 

“ Do, pray, continue, Amelia ; do gratify my vanity by end- 
ing that sentence.” 

“No, no, Mr. Walsingham ; you are vain enough already, 
and your vanity shall be my excuse.” 

“ Why, Amelia, you find excuses as well as that learned 
Frenchman who never ate suppers until he found that the moon 
was a good aider of digestion !” 

“Well, Mr. Walsingham, when we eat our supper this night, 
perhaps I will continue the sentence. But I must replace this 
flower ; for if Julia sees it, she will suspect that I have allowed 
my curiosity to overcome my discretion.” 

“ Dear angel I” murmured Walsingham to himself, “ the time 
will come, I hope and trust, when you will have to confess your 
indiscretions to me.” 


28 


WALSINGIIAM, 


Amelia opened a book, and having placed the flower in secu- 
rity, she turned over one or two leaves. 

“ What may your studies be, Amelia ?” asked Walsingham. 

“ Oh, merely a novel,” was the reply, “ which I love to pore 
over — 1 am so very fond of them.” 

“They are the worst kind of reading, my dear girl; for 
novels do great injury to the cause of sound and wholesome 
literature, and sometimes depreciate morality. It is by these 
light works that the taste of readers is destroyed for useful 
books, and the facts of liistory and the descriptions of poetry 
appear dull and insipid. Do you like poetry 

“ Very much indeed,” was the reply ; “ and I often read at 
night when the rest of our family are asleep.” 

“ Ha! Walsingham,” said Douglass, entering, “I am glad to 
see you ! You dine with us to-day, and we will all go together 
to the masquerade. — By-the-by, I wanted to speak to you alone.” 

“ Oh, I take the hint, Robert and Amelia left the room. 

“ Have you secured our dresses ?” 

“I have,” said Walsingham; “and you will find them in 
your ante-chamber- — But stop; I wantlo see how much taller 
you are than myself.” Both parties stood before the glass, and 
they were exactly of a height ; although Walsingham, from 
being the thinnest, looked the tallest. 

“ The dress,” Douglass continued, “ will obviate all that ; 
and you must mind, when I go to have a desperate coup, that 
you enact my part, and play the husband and the protector. 
Do you know, Walsingham, I am getting quite a wmman ; and 
I doubt if any one of the female sex, even in love, was half so 
superstitious as I am. I have been telling rny fortune by the 
cards, and three times I found the king of spades at the bottom. 
Now, if Captain Rabi foretold his death at the battle of Aus- 
terlitz’*^ by the ten of spades being always in that position, and 
if his wife’s dreams were to be realised, I see no reason why I 
should not share the same fate : and if so, I shall be ruined, or 
near it, to-night.” 

“ And yet you foolishly go and throw away your money ! 
Surely you can amuse yourself sufficiently by ecarte, and if the 
stakes are not high enough, I have no objection to increase 
them, so as to allow you to regain the trifle I have won. But 


* See a very clever paper (indeed they all are so,) in the United Service 
Journal for January 1835, entitled “Captain Rabi, or the Ten of Spades,” 
in the Sketches of a Foreign Military Life. 


THE GAMESTER. 


29 


why, with all this dreary prognostication, allow Fate to triumph, 
when by a little resolution you may defy her? Surely, surely, 
my good friend, you have excitement enough at home.” 

“True, I have what many men would call enough, and my 
losses are more that sufficient to counterbalance the pleasure ; 
but I always think I play to a disadvantage with you ; your 
knowledge of the game gives you a superiority ; and however 
insignihcant the trade may be, it requires some apprenticeship.” 

“ If you think that, I will most willingly give you one game 
in seven, and we can play the partie for any increased sum you 
like, — or try backgammon.” 

“ No ; backgammon I hale : but I will take with pleasure 
the odds you offer, and I will play you this evening for a thou- 
sand pounds the best of the seven games.” 

“ Agreed, agreed,” said Walsingham : “ when we begin, we 
will play that match. — Surely, I heard the handle of the door 
turn !” 

Douglass went to look ; but there was no one in the room, 
although he himself thought he heard the farther door shut. 

“Fancy, fiincy,” he continued. “You’ll be here, then, 
Walsingham, at six o’clock : you can dress in my room for the 
masquerade.” 


30 


WALSINGHAM, 


CHAPTER III. 


That the conduct of Amelia was strange — nay, very strange 
— there can be no doubt. In the first place, she had at one 
time entertained a high opinion of VValsingham ; but his sinister 
behaviour, his libertine conversation and manner, a little alarmed 
her ; and now, although she thought she saw in him a man of 
a very suspicious character, yet she loved him — her heart was 
no longer her own, and all the arguments with which she en- 
deavoured to school herself, failed to wean her of her affection. 
The circumstance of having seen Walsingham remove the cards, 
the constant fretfulness of Douglass’s temper, convinced her 
that gaming occupied his time. Again, she could not suspect 
her lover of a dishonourable action — it was some trick he in- 
tended ; and she, to counteract this, purchased new cards and 
substituted them for those which Walsingham had placed. Yet 
those of his were in the proper wrappers, and evidently had 
not been opened : — she turned them over and over, examined 
them with feminine curiosity, but she refrained from breaking 
the covers, being resolved to laugh at the failure of his trick. 
She resolved to sit by him during the evening’s play, for she 
had overheard the match made for one thousand pounds. 
Though she believed and lent implicit confidence to the history 
of Walsingham’s birth, the quarrel with his father, and his 
refusal to marry, yet this changing of the cards, done so suspi- 
ciously, — the guarded manner he had surveyed the room, — the 
caution, the cunning, — never once made it occur to her that her 
lover could be a swindler. He was evidently a contradiction ; — 
onemoment ridiculing the most sacred obligation ; the next, in- 
culcating morality hy his conversation — (his opinion upon light 
and frivolous reading, for instance :) and only once had he ever 
swerved from the strict manner of a gentleman ; and that was 
when, in a hurried and impassioned tone, he expressed his sen- 
timents warmly, and actually embraced her. 

But Douglass had known him as an old school-fellow — cer- 
tainly had encouraged the affection he must have perceived : 


THE GAMESTER. 


31 


Walsiiigham dined daily at the house, and contributed to the 
amusement of the society ; for, independent of his card-playing 
for such a trifle^ he sang well, and was accomplished. 

To a girl of Amelia’s age, with hoyden spirits and lively 
imagination, these different and conflicting testimonies were 
only likely to embarrass her. With all his faults, she admired 
him — and admiration in a woman is very nearly akin to love : 
indeed, had Walsingham, when he so rudely embraced her, 
followed the kiss or preceded it by a proposition of marriage, 
there' can be no doubt but that Amelia would have accepted 
him. Now, in spite of her fondness, she had discovered him 
to be a gamester, and by way of saving him more than Dou- 
glass from perdition, she thought of telling Julia. But then, the 
very idea that her husband, under the pretence of playing for 
five francs, was risking a thousand pounds, — the duplicity of 
the action, the evident concealment from her of his actual beha- 
viour,— would, Amelia knew right well, have occasioned a sus- 
picion which must have ended in a decided difference. 

On her own observation then she relied, hoping to save both, 
yet willing not to discover any thing to the prejudice of Wal- 
singham, for she was aware of the affection she bore him, and 
the almost love she felt for Douglass. With the former her 
intimacy had so gradually increased, that, like the advance of 
age, it was imperceptible to those who were nearest. We pro- 
gress so gradually from the first formal “ Miss Stanhope,” to 
the unintentional “ Amelia we grow from the formal “ Good 
morning,” and “ Good night,” to a warm cordial shake of the 
hand ; — then (surely the Devil is the plotter !) we in a playful 
mood, and. Heaven knows without the least idea of any thing 
but merriment, kiss the hand — alas ! how imperceptibly we get 
to the lips, and then marry. 

Walsingham had retired to his apartments : he lived in a neat 
well-appointed entresol in the Rue de la Chaussee d’Antin, in 
which were perceptible the luxuries of gentility. On this round 
marble table, that everlasting piece of cold furniture in every 
house in Paris, was a good sprinkling of good books ; a Bible 
and a Prayer-book were amongst the number, — for if the Devil 
can quote Scripture, he must have had a book to learn it from. 
On one side of the table was the “ Magic Book,” a work likely 
to supersede even the talents of Mademoiselle Norman, the 
greatest impostor of any age, and a woman who rolls in luxury 
by administering to the cupidW-y of the female sex in every 
sense of the word and pun. A large clock in imitation of a 


32 


WALSINGHAM, 


cathedral stood over the mantel-piece, and struck the hour in 
that deep and solemn tone well in unison with the buihling from 
which it emanated. The room was carpeted and comfortable ; 
the wood fire blazed in tlie gate, whilst the crackle of the fuel 
and the sparkle of the flame gave the apartment a lively and 
desirable appearance. On one side, and with his back to the 
light, reclined Walsinghani in an easy chair. His occupations 
were various : he had been reading, he had been discovering by 
means of the Magic Book his future fortune ; and he now was 
busily employed in dealing five cards to his supposed adversary 
and five to himself, and then turning up ^king. It was neither 
the first nor the fortieth time that he had taken his daily prac- 
tice ; for as an opera-dancer he is obliged to twirl upon one 
toe, and caper upon both legs for hours and hours together, 
twisting himself into various postures, called by fashion, ele- 
gant ; and as those wdio sing and squall Italian bravuras must 
by practice keep their voices and tliroats in order ; so must the 
professed swindler undergo his daily labour in order to deceive 
the unwary so completely that the suspicion shall not arise. 

“That will do for to-day,” said this arch villain to himself, 
reclining upon his chair, “ and that thousand pounds is safe. 
Now have I got a flat in my net, and I can liold him fast. — 
Iiet me see ; before he came to Paris I was down to my last 
five hundred franc note, and how 1 got that my conscience takes 
care to remind me ; now I am worth no less than three thou- 
sand pounds, and by ten o’clock this night I shall be worth four. 

“That girl’s arrival was the making of me; for now I have 
driven him into private play, and am reaping the golden harvest 
of my own ingenuify. He talks of being ruined, or likely to be 
so by his play to-night; I must somehow hinder that — his mo- 
ney must be mine, and I am mistaken if Amelia shall not be 
mine without benefit of clergy. I have done this well ; my 
observations are moral, my behaviour to his wife distant, re- 
served, yet friendly ; but a curse upon my tongue and my folly 
which betrayed my intentions to Amelia before my plan was 
ripe ! I must look up some old French quotations about love 
and frieitdship, for English girls listen more readily to either 
Italian or French. Amelia must be the link by which I shall 
enchain Douglass ; and once independent again — once in a 
situation to live retired and like a gentleman, I can cast off my 
old and my bad habits, and appear in a country town in Eng- 
land like a snake which has just cast its skin, all gold and bright- 
ness ; although I must keep clear of Worcester and that neigh- 


THE GAMESTER. 


33 


bourhood. Now I am above want ; but as the garden is to be 
robbed, as we said at school, I might just as well have a pull at 
the golden fruit, as allow it to be plucked and preserved by the 
proprietor of the Salon. 

“The book foretells me bad luck to-night; be it so— my in- 
genuity shall conquer fortune. And when he is ruined, as, poor 
fool he must be ! and he has sent his wife back to England a 
beggar, I will retain him here : his bills shall be paid — his credit 
above suspicion, and I will employ him to my own advantage ; 
he shall be initiated into the new mysteries, and by making him 
a villain to avoid poverty, I will enrich myself at the hazard of 
•Douglass. So now for a few verses of the Bible, a few proverbs 
of Solomon, a few extracts from that contradiction of a man 
Voltaire ; and what with these and my own aptitude at making 
quotations, the deuce is in it if I cannot deceive the women, and 
make that fool believe me.” 

His bell rang, and Douglass was announced; but at the first 
vibration of sound, the cards and the magic had been removed, 
and Walsingham was reading a prophecy of Isaiah. 

“ Ah ! Douglass, I am glad to see you here ! for your visits 
are, ‘ like angels, few and far between.’ To be sure, I always 
forestall your intention, for with such fascination as you possess 
at home, no wonder we poor fellows feel the attraction and own 
the power.” 

“ That’s a fine speech,” said Robert, “ out of that book : — let 
us see — the Bible ! ! that indeed !” 

“ It is my custom,” replied Walsingham, “ daily to read a 
certain portion : I find that I endure mortification the better, and 
I become more contented with life by the prospects held out of 
eternity. I always was a serious character, and, although some- 
times driven for amusement ” 

“ Into hell,” interrupted Robert. 

“ Yes,” continued Walsingham, “yet I always repaired the 
mischief by a chapter of consolation from this book.” 

“Every thing in unison,” said Robert: “ tlie church for a 
clock, to remind you of salvation and lime. Why I never should 
have given you credit for half so much religion as I see before 
me.” 

“ I have always been a misjudged man,” replied Walsingham ; 
“ but I care not for the opinion of the worlds as long as my friend 
knows me as an honest man.” 

“ Talking of honesty,” replied Robert,— “ I want you to prac* 
lise a little deception for me.” 


34 


Wz\LSINGHAM, 


“ I fear you could not have selected a worse man,” said Wal- 
singham : “ but, as long as it is innocent, I will assist you if I 
can.” 

“ It is this,” continued Robert : — “ My wife knows that the 
house opposite to mine is the Salon — the hell. How are we to 
avoid her knowing this when we go to the masquerade? She 
would as soon tread the boards of the black gentleman’s dominion 
down below as venture into that sink of iniquity, which she 
dreads more than all the world put together. You must manage 
to deceive her.” 

“ My dear Douglass, you should have acted openly wiih her, 
and told her that it was the Salon. I have always found that 
‘ honesty was the best policy,’ and especially to forward domestic 
happiness : the wife and the husband should be one.” 

“ Oh, curse your morality and your lecture !” interrupted 
Douglass ; “ one would fancy you were a bishop going to give 
advice and a blessing. You must manage this ; you must speak 
to my coachman. I care not how it is done, — but it must be 
done, — or you will lose your masqued chat with Amelia, and I 
shall lose my play.” 

“Cunning fellow,” replied Walsingham; “you have well 
chosen the means to seduce me to your wishes ! — Well, let me 
see ! — Oh, I can manage it : — I will bring my carriage ; yours 
of course.is gone to the coachmaker’s. — Make your mind easy ; 
1 will arrange it all. It is so innocent a deception, that I do not 
mind participating in the plot; more especially as her aversion 
is founded on erroneous principle.” 

“ And I suppose,” interrupted Douglass, “ Amelia has nothing 
to do with it.” 

“ Sit down for a moment, and let us talk about that little 
divinity. She is a charming girl ! — such expression, such a 
graceful figure, such nobleness of countenance ! and as for 
eyes — ” 

“ They go through you,” said Robert with mock gravity ; 
“like a flash of lightning through a gooseberry bush.” 

“I have been,” continued Walsingham, “reading Burton’s 
Anatomy of Melancholy since I left you ; and do pray tell me, 
for you by this time may be considered a judge, if he is right in 
his idea of matrimony. ‘ Marriage,’ he says, (I learnt it by heart,) 
‘ is honourable, a blessed calling ; it breeds true peace, tran- 
quillity, content, and happiness ; qua nulla est, aut fuit unquam, 
sanctior conjunctio, as Daphnaeus in Plutarch could well prove ; 
et quae generi humano immortalitatem parat, when they live 


THE GAMESTER. 


35 


without jarring, scolding, lovingly, as they should do, as Seneca 
lived with his Paulina, Abraham and Sarah, Artemisia and 
Mausolus, &c. Slc. There is no pleasure in the world compara- 
ble to it; ’tis summum mortalitatis bonum, hominiim divumque 
voluptas, alma Venus. Latet enim in muliere aliquid majus, 
potentiusque omnibus aliis humanis voluptatibus, as one holds. 
There is something in a woman beyond all human delight ; a 
magnetic virtue, a charming quality, an occult and powerful mo- 
tive.’ Ay, Douglass ?” 

Good morning, Walsingham. But before I go — did you 
learn all that Latin at school ?” 

“ Not at Winchester, Douglass ! Good morning.” 

“ So, he is out of hearing, poor fellow ! — and I have pre- 
ciously fooled him ! he is just the man who cannot believe that 
the Bible may be in one hand whilst the other is in his pocket. 
Now to arrange a few more packs of cards ; and cleverly enough 
I have placed them for to-night ! To be sure, if a man has a right 
to be proud, it is when he can govern his neighbours, and make 
their wealth his, by the mere turning of a card. The educated 
and uneducated agree in this, — and nothing shows the extent of 
civilisation more than the multitude of pickpockets. 7’he Caffre 
chief answered well, when he was asked, ‘ What is the chief 
end of man ?’ and he responded, ‘ to 'steal cattle,'^ Every man 
ought to have a profession, and I Iiave mine : it has ugly names, 
— such as, swindler, gambler, cheat, blackleg, and so on ; but 
the fashionable French appellation is chevalier cVindicstrie, — 
and what is more honourable than an industrious gentleman. 
Poor Douglass ! he is gone home to his wife quite convinced 
that my mind is running riot on marriage ; and he will tell her 
all he remembers of my quotations, with some few additions ; 
and she will believe it, and Amelia will believe it — for girls are 
always fond of admiration, and always credulous — and this will 
look to her like sincere repentance. I verily believe there is no 
compliment, however absurd, but that some ugly woman would 
believe it ; — and in regard to beauty, one must follow the vulgar 
saying, ‘ Put it on generously ; some of it will stick.’ ” 

“ Monsieur,” said a French valet, as he entered, “ votre cab- 
riolet est k la porte.” 

“ Bon,” was the reply ; and after arranging his dress with 
some care, he entered his vehicle and drove up the Champs 
Elysees into the Bois de Boulogne, to keep an appointment 
with a French milliner. 

The dinner hour arrived, and Walsingham was punctual to 


36 


WALSINGHAM, 


his time. Julia was present, and to her he directed his conver- 
sation. 

“ I saw,” he began, “your charming companion reading a 
novel this morning, and 1 took upon myself to recommend her 
other pursuits.” 

“ She would gladly listen, I am sure,” replied Julia, “ to any 
advice one so well qualified as yourself might please to give.” 

Walsingham bowed, and continued — “I took the liberty be- 
cause 1 have always thought that the passion for romances and 
novels originate in a morbid, fluttering, fidgety curiosity, and 
produces a sickly sensibility of mind, which is equally adverse 
to the acquisition of useful knowledge and sound morality. 
Now, useful knowledge tends to the realisation of wealth, and 
to the proper disposition of time.” 

“Humph!” said Walsingham to himself ; “ that is what the 
sailors call, getting to windward of the lady.” 

“I am quite of your opinion,” replied Julia: “and when 
time is properly occupied, it enhances domestic felicity, and 
makes life desirable.” 

“ We read in the works of the great French philosopher,” 
continued Walsingham, “ ‘ Les plaisirs nesont pas assez solides 
pour soufTrir qu’on les approfondisse ; il ne faut que les effleurer. 
Ils ressemblent a ces terres marecageuses sur lesquelles on est 
oblige de courir legerement, sans y arreter jamais le pied.’ But 
with all due deference and respect to so great an authority, I 
think that by the proper disposition of time, life may be spent 
so as to make each moment a pleasure ; and I cannot but think 
that your view is more consonant with comfort than the words 
of the philosopher.” 

“Do you, gay as you are, Mr. Walsingham, find time to de- 
vote to study?” asked Julia. 

“Study!” interrupted Douglass; “why, he is a real book- 
worm : he repeated half Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy to 
me, and I caught him poring over the Bible with more applica- 
tion than half the bench of bishops.” 

“ The Bible !” ejaculated Amelia, who had paid great atten- 
tion to the conversation ; and then she said to herself, “ Then 
my suspicions, thank God, cannot be true.” 

“ Is there any thing very extraordinary,” replied Walsingham, 
addressing Amelia, “ in a man and a Christian reading the sa- 
cred writings ? lam sorry Miss Stanhope formed so bad an 
opinion of one who has endeavoured to emulate her virtue and 
her religion.” 


THE GAMESTER. 


37 


“ That’s a shot between wind and water,” continued the vil- 
lain to himself. 

Amelia blushed, and said, “I am sure, Mr. Walsingham, you 
will forgive my rudeness. I was quite aware from your talent 
that you devoted much lime to study ; but I did not think that 
at present, during the day, you read that book.” 

“ Indeed your suspicions, Miss Stanhope, are founded on 
fact; for I have latterly placed yon upon the shrine, and spent 
my days and nights in worshipping an angel.” 

“ Now,” replied Amelia with some vivacity, “ I really do not 
believe you ; for that compliment was at the expense of truth.” 

“ I assure you. Miss Stanhope, you are again mistaken ; and 
you will find, I hope, the longer we are acquainted, that no fer- 
vent Catholic ever bent knee to the figure of the Virgin with 
greater adoration than I kneel at the shrine of Truth. Do you 
remember those beautiful lines, which form a prayer I often of- 
fer up ? — 

“ Before thy mystic altar, heavenly Truth^ 

I kneel in manhood, as I knelt in youth. 

Thus let me kneel, till this dull form decay. 

And life’s last shade be brighten’d by thy ray ; 

Then shall my soul, now lost in clouds below, 

Soar without bounds, without consuming glow.”* 

“ How very beautiful !” said Amelia, whilst her eyes were 
directed towards Walsingham. Julia looked at Robert, and Ro- 
bert understood the meaning: it was a confession of admiration 
so near love, that even Douglass, absorbed as he was with plans 
for the evening, understood it well ; it was one of those glances 
which are only given when the mind is concentrated upon one 
object, and that object a human being. From this moment there 
appeared in Amelia a more anxious wish to listen than to talk : 
and some impudent fellows have asserted, that whenever a wo- 
man can forego her disposition to chatter for the gratification of 
listening, she must be very much in love with the speaker. 
Walsingham had now surrounded himself in a kind of impreg- 
nable fortress which the blind eye of love could never penetrate : 
both Julia and Amelia looked upon him as a man sincere in 
principle, moral in hi5 behaviour, charming in his discourse; 
his attention was devotedness, and he acted his part so beauti- 
fully that he began to fancy himself in love. 


VOL. II. 


* Sir W. Jones. 

4 


38 


WALSINGHAM, 


Conversation, in which Walsingham led the van, was occa- 
sionally relieved by the dishes, — for, as Dr. Johnson says, “ the 
uniformity of the world must be sometimes diversified, and the 
vacuity of conversation sometimes supplied,” — until the jolly 
hour of reinvigoration had passed. At this dinner all the party 
regarded Walsingham with greater respect; for his conversa- 
tion, although occasionally light, seemed always to bear the im- 
press of truth, and he never hazarded a remark which malice 
could twist into levity. The cards were brought, and Amelia 
was at once disarmed from all suspicion by Walsingham say- 
ing, “ My dear Robert, I think it quite unfair that you should 
always supply the cards ; so I have thrown in a pack or two 
this morning.” But had not the girl been blind, she would 
have remarked, at least to herself, “ Then why change the 
cards — why remove so many packs to replace them by others ?” 
But the idea escaped her : she really believed him honourable 
and sincere ; and it might be that she would not now have re- 
sented a kiss as she foolishly did, or more foolishly publish it 
to the world. There was a look of recognition, as much as to 
say, “ This begins the match and forthwith the cards were 
dealt. 

When once a suspicion is excited, it requires confirmation 
strong as holy writ before it is subdued. Thus Amelia, having 
once imbibed the notion that there must have been something 
premeditated, could not, even with all the compliments which 
had been lavished, entirely rid herself of the suspicion. 

“ I shall,” she said to Walsingham, “ take a lesson from your 
mode of playing; so let me sit close to you. You need not 
fear ; my countenance will not betray a good hand, or sadden at 
a bad one; and although 1 am a woman, 1 shall not say a 
word.” 

“ You seem, Mimie, my dear,” replied Douglass, “ to know 
one of the six inherent failings of your sex; and let us see if 
you can master it.” 

The first thing that struck Amelia was the sullen manner in 
which this proposition was received. True love never can be 
too close; and Amelia thought that Walsingham might as well 
have said something more than, “As you please. Miss Stan- 
hope.” The next observation she made was the peculiar man- 
ner in which Walsingham shuffled the cards, and the expression 
of surprise which he could not conceal when he evidently found 
that the cards were not those which he had substituted. He 


THE GAMESTER. 


39 


gave one game out of seven, and he lost the first; making two 
against him. 

“ These cards run against me,” he said ; “ let us change 
them and he got up himself, went to the card-box, and brought 
two more packs. Amelia’s face had grown quite pale, and she 
looked ill ; which Julia, who sat by her husband, and who 
watched his play, perceived. Agarn did Amelia remark the pe- 
culiar manner, and again she saw the same disappointed look 
and angry scowl which grew over his features. He then began 
to shuffle the cards in such a manner as to see them. This, 
however, was unnoticed by Amelia ; and although a king did 
occasionally turn up, yet such was the general run of good luck 
which for a wonder seemed to grow to Douglass, that for the 
first time since he began this certain ruin, private play, he found 
himself a winner. 

The sharp manner of Walsingham did not escape Amelia : 
she saw the man who had spoken of the benefit of “ keeping 
one’s temper” not a little agitated ; and as he had declared him- 
self to her a beggar on two thousand a year, and knowing the 
match was for one, she inwardly hoped this practical lesson 
would wean him from high play, and teach him to be contented 
with his lot. 

Douglass instantly offered him his revenge, but Walsingham 
refused it, begging Amelia to play, which she instantly did ; but 
she watched her lover’s closely, and he amused himself shuffling 
the pack. 

The time soon came when the ladies proposed to retire in or- 
der to dress themselves. Walsingham seized the opportunity 
of Amelia’s absence, and challenged Robert to play another par- 
tie for two thousand ; — it was agreed, played, and won by Wal- 
singham. The game ran even until four all ; when Walsing- 
ham dealt, and the king was turned up. 

It was during a slight paroxysm of rage, which Robert could 
not control, that the ladies entered. Both were dressed exactly 
alike, and both had taken every precaution to secure themselves 
against detection. For some time both gentlemen regarded 
them with scrutiny : it was impossible to discover the difference 
of colour in the eyes, but Walsingham saw the jessamine blos- 
som, and in passing to dress, he took the hand of her who wore 
it, and gave it a most sentimental squeeze. No sooner had they 
shut the door than Julia reported progress, and asked if Wal- 
singham always gave those very tender squeezes. Both laugh- 


40 


WALSINGHAM, 


ed, and made up during ibe absence of ibe men for tbe silence 
they bad sworn to observe previous lo going into ibe room. 

Soon ibe gentlemen were ready, and boib came in unmasked. 
Tbe dominos were exactly ibe same ; but as no suspicion bad 
been excited concerning ibeir determination — for tbe conversa- 
tion overbeard by Amelia was loo vague to admit of any posi- 
tive conclusion, — Walsingharn asked for the tickets, the car- 
riage was announced, and Julia was banded by him lo ibe ve- 
hicle. 


CHAPTER IV. 


Walsingham, by way of putting tbe matter right, began tbe 
conversation about the carriage, saying, “ that his coachman was 
a kind of owl, and was never known lo be indisposed during tbe 
night; that be was hardly ever used during the day, and that, 
like all half-worked animals, be was getting fat and lazy.” 

The carriage whisked round one corner, then flew round an- 
other ; and after ten minutes’ driving, it drove into the court- 
yard of the Salon, and the party alighted. In the ante-room tbe 
tickets were given, and the ladies, taking each other’s arm, 
walked into the receiving-room. The different commissioners 
bowed, but none spoke ; and thus passing into tbe circular 
room, they were fortunate enough lo find a sofa disengaged, and 
they sat down. 

In this room was the dancing here were grave-looking 
Turks waltzing with Sisters of Charily, — harlequins lacking ac- 
tivity, and clowns seriously dull. Even in France a masque- 
rade seems a dismal affair ; one would imagine that tbe com- 
pany wore tbe pasteboard blind in order to slink into their own 
selves, and to enjoy solitude in the presence of tlioiisands. The 
music had begun, — the giddy waltz was at its height: Walsing- 
bam whispered to Julia, believing her lo be Amelia, and asked 
her to dance. 

The lady responded in a feigned voice, that she was a stranger 
to that dance, and that it appeared neither graceful, elegant, nor 
decent. 


THE GAMESTER. 


41 


“ This,” replied Walsingham, “ is sheer fastidiousness ; no- 
thing shows more beautifully the elegant figure of a woman, and 
surely the simple afi'air of supporting a lady could hardly be 
termed indecent. Indeed, dearest Amelia,” he said, “ one pos- 
sessing your angelic symmetry might venture, robed as you are 
now, without the slightest indelicacy ; for so long has that en- 
vied domino — envied, since it covers your person — been made, 
that one might as well have looked for a foot belonging to a 
Queen of Spain, and incurred as great a penalty in finding it.” 

“ I cannot comprehend you,” replied Julia. “Do Spanish 
women wear their dresses so long ? See ! there is a nun with 
petticoats — if any — short enough for an opera-dancer.” 

“She has chosen some country peasant’s costume. For 
Madame Daunoy, in her Memoirs upon Spain, mentions ‘that 
the Spanish women thought no favour so great as to show their 
gallants their feet : it was high treason to speak of the queen’s 
legs.’ And an instance is recorded of the wife of Charles the 
Second, who was thrown from her horse, but whose foot was 
retained in the stirrup. A cavalier seeing the accident, ran to 
her assistance ; but having unfortunately, in disentangling her, 
touched her leg, he was instantly condemned to transportation. 
•It was such a transport to touch it, that had you been her, / 
would willingly have undergone the pleasure and the penalty.” 

“ I really cannot waltz,” resumed Julia ; “ not from any ap- 
prehension of showing my feet, but because such tetotum twirl- 
ing would make me giddy: but ask Julia.” 

“ No, no,” replied Walsingham ; “ my attentions I dedicate 
to you. Married women should never dance ; their figures are 
always spoilt by having children. And besides, although I like 
her, I have no hesitation in saying I adore you. — You really 
must allow me to support that taper waist, and feel your light 
angelic figure.” 

“ No, Mr. Walsingham, flattered as I may be,” replied Julia, 
“ with your compliments, yet waltz I will not: but I will dance 
the first quadrille with you. I must tell Julia,” she continued, 
“ of my intentions,” — and she whispered in the ear of Amelia 
a slight account of the progress of deception. In the mean 
time, Douglass, believing that he was destined to sit by his wife, 
and a little soured by his loss, began to Amelia his remarks. 

“That fellow Walsingham is playing the agreeable to that 
weather-hen Amelia; and she is coquetting and flirting with 
him prodigiously. I begin to wish she was away — back in 


42 


WALSINGHAM, 


England, or that Charles would come over here. You women 
are so cursed unmanageable when you are in love !” 

“ Did you find me so, dear Robert,” replied Amelia, “ before 
you married me ?” 

“No; you were steadier than Amelia ; and I never found 
you giving me permission to take a kiss, and then making a vir- 
tue of mentioning it : there was something like mischief making 
or deception in that! ’Faith, I believe she would as soon kiss 
Walsingham as not!” 

“You wrong l)er, Robert!” replied the girl, her face firing 
with the sudden blush which had flown to it, and almost con- 
sumed the mask which fortunately concealed it: “ but I dare 
say you would not mind kissing her a little.” 

“Nonsense!” replied Robert; “she is like a sister to me; 
and kissing them is as insipid as eating cold veal without salt.” 

“ Now, confess, Robert, — did you never kiss her, insipid as 
it might be ?” 

“ Never, by heavens ! I would as soon think of kissing a 
cow. She is in my eyes neither handsome, accomplished, nor 
pleasing; — her manners are those of a lioyden spoilt child ; and 
one might as well use a pea shooter for a telescope, as extract 
either sense or propriety from such a girouettey 

“ That IS pleasant,” thought Amelia to herself: “Listeners 
never hear any good of themselves, is as old as the hills, and as 
true as the gospel. But now I will try himy 

“I believe you are more right than wrong in your conclusions 
of Amelia,” she began ; “ but what think you of Walsingham ? 
Is he sincere in his aflections ? or is he, like the rest of you, 
ready to pledge his soul for any woman to ransom ?” 

“ I think he is rather smitten,” replied Douglass ; “ and I 
pity him if ever he marries her, — she will lead him a devil of a 
life ! Slie is, like^quicksilver, eternally on the move^ and con- 
sequenth" can never make a steady wife.” And he laughed at 
his own conceit. 

Just at this moment, Julia whispered to Amelia the conversa- 
tion with Walsingham ; and she, in return, discovered that slie 
had been tolerated rather than welcomed. 

“The waltz had ceased ; and Walsingham, anxious to secure 
a place, gave his hand to his fancied Amelia, and led her to the 
dance : but, some ditficulty arising from each party being pre- 
engaged, Robert consented to walk through a dance with his 
own wife, and in blessed ignorance led Amelia opposite Julia. 
Very little conversation occurred during the quadrille ; numbers 


I 


I 


1 

J 

i 




? 


i 

1 


THE GAMESTER. 43 

had crowded upon numbers, and the ear of a man was not far 
from the ear of the next lady. 

In these exhibitions the English in general are very averse 
to being thought English ; and not unfrequently they take the 
surest mode of detection, that of speaking French : wliereas if 
they mutilated their own “ grunting, guttural language,” they 
might succeed better than in speaking through the mouth what 
ought to Jbe sounded through the nose. However, few remark- 
ed, for few cared : those gay Lotharios who had previously 
made assignations knew their ladies by some secret device, and 
it only required to see them walk the dance to know what place 
had the honour of their births. There is a light fantastic kind 
of tiptoe exhibition which a French person cannot disguise; it 
is a national mark, stamped as strongly on their feet as the 
broad countenance of a Tartar on ..his barbarian visage. 

If a French woman were dancing in the garb of a sultana, she 
would put her hands in the same position as a poodle dog when 
told to beg; and when the Catholic religion shall give place to 
another, perhaps that of the Twirlers and Jumpers would be 
most convenient to their conscience, and the easiest to under- 
stand. No sooner, therefore, did Julia and Amelia move in the 
first figure than they were noted as English and regarded as 
such. They walked exactly alike ; and Walsingham, who seized 
the eight- bar license to talk which a quadrille afl^ords, com- 
menced by wmndering “ how his dear Amelia could so easily 
imitate the rather ungraceful step of her friend Julia.” 

“ Nothing is easier,” replied Julia ; “ we are nearly of an age, 
and I always thought we walked in the same manner.” 

“A most amazing blindness, my dear Amelia, on your part! 
One has all the elasticity of unwedded youth ; the other, the 
stately gravity of the mother. Dress yourselves any how and 
you could not deceive me ; for Love, they say, is blind, — and 
yet no one possesses such piercing, jealous eyes as the little 
god.” 

“ Hush!” said Julia, apprehensive that they might be over- 
heard. 

Douglass, imagining he had his wife to dance with, did not 
undergo the fiitigue of making conversation ; and when the mu- 
sic ceased, lie led her to the same sofa on which was seated his 
old adviser, the old gentleman who sat next to him at the din- 
ner. He was watching the different ladies, and seeing one ap- 
proach, he made way for her, and the three were seated. The 
elderly gentleman east a scrutinizing glance at his neighbours : 


44 


WALSINGHAM, 


the lady he evidently did not know, but there was something 
in the manner of Douglass which seemed to recall him to his 
memory. 

At masquerade the approach of any man is allowed, provid- 
ing the conversation is sucli that delicacy is not shocked, or the 
prerogative of women assailed. The old gentleman began in 
French, and Amelia, who was no proficient in the language, 
hazarded a reply. 

“ Ah ! English,” replied the stranger; “ I thought I saw you 
dance: I judged only from that and the voice; for French wo- 
men, although they keep their mouths full of bonbons, have not 
the sweetest intonation, and they cannot refrain from dancing 
whenever they hear the squeak of a fiddle.” 

The compliment tempted Amelia to continue the dialogue, 
which she did by asking “if he knew who was the pretty 
figure dressed as a gipsy.” 

“I imagine,” he replied, “ it is a lady whose form might war- 
rant the imitation of La Esmeralda, but whose virtue would ra- 
ther lose by the comparison. I suppose that brilliant officer is 
intended for her Phoebus : he will look brighter by-and-by, 
when he gets near the gaming-table.” 

“ What !” interrupted Amelia, “ is there a gaming-table 
and the stress she laid upon the word occasioned the reply of 
the old geatleman. 

“^ere.'” said he, as Douglass gave a gentle and a useless 
nudge; “/lerc.' — why, where do you think you are ? This is 
the superior pandemonium of Paris — the Salon of the Rue de 
Richelieu — the licensed plunder abode of the rich and the un- 
wary. How do you think this midnight revelry is paid for, but 
from the pockets of the company 1 This is the house which 
made Cavendish a villain, and Houghton a suicide.” 

A thrill of horror ran through Amelia, which communicated 
itself to Douglass ; and who, believing it to be his wife who had 
procured the unwelcome intelligence, sat motionless like a black 
statue, as he felt the hand of Amelia passed through his arm as 
if to cower for shelter. 

“In what street, did you say, sir?” said Amelia, her voice 
faltering into its natural tone, which convinced Douglass of the 
deception which had been practised, and came to restore his 
presence of mind. 

“ In what street?” replied the elderly gentleman ; “ why, in 
the Rue de Richelieu, exactly opposite the Hotel des Princes, 
the second door from the Boulevard. There, madam, is latitude 


THE GAMESTER. 


45 


and longitude, bearings and distance, as the sailors say.” And 
before he could continue his answer more than to say, “that it 
was a place where all the vices congregated, and where even the 
figure of Esmeralda might be purchased,” he rose from his seat, 
and addressing a lady in French, withdrew. 

“Amelia, Amelia^'' said Douglass, “your anxiety has be- 
trayed you ; for / cannot be deceived in your voice. Hear me, 
listen to me, and as you would spare Julia the dreadful shock 
she would undergo did she discover the deception which has 
been practised, promise me never to allow one word of this to 
escape your lips. I am alone to blame ; my cursed disposition 
to gaming led me to urge Walsingham to get the tickets. Nay, 
when he first introduced me here, which was long previous to 
your arrival, he warned me of the threatening danger ; and I it 
was who overcame all his arguments against it — who dissipated 
his scruples even tins very morning as to the circuitous route 
we were to take before we drove into the court-yard. And now 
most sincerely do I wish I had listened to his excellent advice : 
he warned me that some cursed unexpected rencontre would 
discover the whole, and urged me again and again not to come 
myself, or to allow your curiosity to be gratified in such a 
place.” 

“ Robert ! Robert ! where have you brought us ! Why, it is 
a den of infamy, where no honest woman ought to appear. Can- 
not you take us home immediately?” 

“ Impossible,” he replied ; “Julia w^ould then discover and 
despise me. I pledged my w^ord after my first serious losses 
never to enter this door again ; and now not only to have vio- 
lated my own sacred promise, but to have made her an eye- 
witness to my guilt, would distract her. No; let the evening 
go on — let Fate do her worst. In this room are many of the 
most exemplary of the metropolis, guided, like you, by mere 
curiosity : but do you promise me, for your word is not broken, 
never to mention this ; and on you,” he said as he took her 
hand, “surely, surely, dearest Amelia, I may rely.” 

“I promise,” she said. “Now answer me this, — did Wal- 
singham really warn you from this place ?” 

“Indeed, my dear Amelia, he did; and had you heard him 
when in his glowing terms he spoke of tlie ruin which might 
follow — when he addressed me as a husband and a father, you 
would not think your affections misplaced. Nay, Amelia, do 
not start so ; — I have watched you both — I have seen the tell- 
tale eyes sparkling with delight — and I observed to-day at din- 


46 


WALSINGHAM, 


iier the expression of gratification which you betrayed when 
you heard of his studies and his occupations. You told me 
something of warning me from my destruction : he was that 
warning voice which spoke in vain.” 

That Amelia really loved Walsingham, although she had for 
a moment harboured what she now considered a base ungene- 
rous thought, there can be no doubt. The confirmation from 
Douglass’s lips of his honourable conduct dissipated all appre- 
hension, and she was anxious enough for the return of Julia in 
order to possess the jessamine, and to hear from his own lips 
the declaration she anticipated in consequence of the morning’s 
conversation. 

When the dance was finished, Walsingham led Julia to a 
small room which is beyond the rouge-et-noir apartment; and 
that room — for the excitement was elsewhere — was vacant. 
They sat down on a sofa only calculated to hold two ; and 
Walsingham, taking her hand, commenced thus: “Thank 
heavens, Amelia ! I have now an opportunity of a little Ute-d4ite 
with you, not likely to be disturbed by any,” Julia attempted 
to withdraw her hand ; but the squeeze was so warm and af- 
fectionate, that she, poor soul ! was soon overcome. “ Nay, 
nay,” continued Walsingham, “ my dear, this is treating me 
unkindly ; you surely would not wish to extinguish a flame 
your own bright self has created : nay, you are too generous, 
and, I hope, too much disinclined.” (Here Julia hung down 
her head, almost bursting with an inclination to laugh, but which 
prudence controlled.) Walsingham having tempted her to look 
at him, he endeavoured to catch her eye through the green gauze 
she had placed over the holes in the mask : his were those of 
immodest desire — an indescribable look, half melting in moisture, 
and yet glaring with fire : it is a look which none can imitate — 
none describe. “Amelia,” he continued, “surely I need not 
repeat what you must have felt. I love you, fondly, sincerely, 
truly, and often do I dream of dear delights, perhaps never to be 
mine. Answer me, my own Amelia, — my long-loved charming 
girl : am I to be fortunate in possessing that which monarchs 
might envy Julia acted well ; hung down her head, flourished 
her handkerchief, forgetting she had a mask, and put it to her 
eyes, forgetting there was a veil of gauze to impede its utility : — 
it was a kind of confirmation that her heart and head were so 
occupied that she had forgotten all but Walsingham and her 
tears. He continued, 

“ That silence is the eloquence of consent. And now, dearest 


THE GAMESTER. 47 

girl, to think of all the passion of unshackled love ; to think with 
that great master of human feelings — 

“ Oh, happy state ! when souls each other ^draw, — 

When love is liberty, and nature law !” 

No foolish tie — sanctified indeed, by mere human breath, bind- 
ing two people together, the very bonds of -which are the first 
inducement to our nature to struggle to be free. No, dearest; 
you, I know, would rather say with Eloisa,*— that fond, that 
impassioned creature, whose love could never die, because it 
never was tied and bound by the officious churchman — 

“ Should at my feet the world’s great master fall, 

Himself, his throne, his power, I’d scorn them all. 

Not CsDsar’s Empress would I deign to prove : 

No ! make me mistress to the man I love.” 

Julia withdrew her hand as if she had been stung by a 
viper. She had scarcely heeded the first sentence, but the 
force, the eloquence of the last line — the uncontrolled expression 
he gave to the word “ mistress,” startled her to attention. She 
arose instantly, and, without saying a word, was about to with- 
draw : he seized her arm and again urged her to be seated. 
“ Nay, listen,” he began, “ my dearest Anielia : see what 
misery springs from marriage ; look at your own friend Julia, — 
She interrupted him instantly. 

“ Oh, they are happy, happy in the very bonds which bind 
them togeiher ! She has no wish ungratified ; her heart is the 
repository of all his cares, of all his wants, of all his desires.” 

“ Stop, stop,” resumed Walsingham ; “ you are sadly deceiv- 
ed — sadly mistaken : she is as ignorant of the ruin which threa- 
tens her as the babe unborn. He dupes her by fine words and 
promises ; he regards her as an ignorant creature, who has not 
courage to listen to that which would scare her from this me- 
tropolis. Does slie know where she is at this moment ?” 

“ Away, away, Mr. Walsingham ! you cannot thus deceive 
me ; you cannot, paint the ruin how you will, make me believe 
that he would be unmarried to-morrow, or that Julia could har- 
bour one thought against the man she loves, — the man to whom 
she clings for succour and support ; and how dare you, sir, to 
think that I would sacrifice my virtue to you?” 

“ In the eye of Heaven,” he coolly answered, “we should be 
married.” 


48 


WALSINGHAM, 


“ And why not, then,” replied Julia, “ in the eye of society ! 
What! would you wish to bring the girl who loved you lo be a 
by-word and a scorn — to be an outcast from the world, — to 
tremble when the eye of virtue recognised her as the low, de- 
graded, scorned, helpless woman, she then would be ? And, 
Mr. Walsingham, since you have selected your quotations from 
a poem our sex is almost forbidden to read, allow me to offer 
you this, from a more virtuous writer, and addressed to a mo- 
narch. ‘ A woman,’ says Lord Clarendon, ‘ who prostitutes 
herself to a king, is equally infamous lo all women of honour, 
and must expect the same contempt from them as if she were 
common lo mankind ; and that no enemy he (Charles II.) had, 
could advise him a more sure way to lose the hearts and 
affections of the people than the indulging himself in such licen- 
tiousness.’ Now answer me, sir, how dare you insult me as 
you have done; and your reason why, when you own your love, 
you refuse to marry me.” 

“ On account of my father, dearest Amelia. I told you of 
my difference with him on the score of marriage; and I feared 
and still fear his discovery if I should marry. I had the inten- 
tion of fulfilling a promise of marriage at his death, but, since I 
find you so adverse to my proposition, I am ready to be married 
in secret, and here offer my hand. I do not wish,” continued 
the scoundrel, “ to shock your modesty ; it was offered in a 
moment of haste and eagerness, and you will forgive the words 
of which a man so passionately in love as I am may uninten- 
tionally avail himself. It is the dread that my father may in his 
anger cut me off with a shilling, and leave me nothing but what 
the law enforces him lo do, that prompts this ; as the estate 
without some other assistance would be a weight more calculated 
to sink me, than to make me free to ramble at discretion. 
Again, Amelia, let me implore you to think kindly of me, and 
allow that I have had some reason in my madness.” 

“Tell me, Mr. Walsingham,” replied Julia, “ what makes 
you think that Julia and her husband are unhappy, and that he 
deceives her ? for 1 should have said from my own observation 
that no two people seemed fonder of each other — that little link 
of affection, the boy, keeping the chain firmer and closer to- 
gether.” 

“ You ladies, dear Amelia,” he replied, although blessed with 
eyes which might deaden the rays of the sun, see occasionally 
very indistinctly. Julia regards him with the look of affection, 
and she does not see the worm which is devouring him : his 


THE GAMESTER. 


49 


love is a very secondary affair with him, — his whole thought, — 
his whole absorbing idea — mind, I trust it to you as a secret — is 
gaming^ 

“ Gaming !” replied Julia, trembling in every limb, “ gaming ! 
why, Mr. Walsingham, if such be the case, where does he 
gratify his wish ?” 

“ said Walsingham, “here in this house.” 

“ In this house !” continued Julia; “ why, this house you told 
me was hired for the night in order to give this masquerade, 
which you further remarked was a liberal act in the strangers 
now resident in Paris.” 

“I did, I believe, dearest Amelia, say something to that 
amount ; but in all French societies like this, there are gaming 
tables, and he will be there, I dare say, losing thousands. I 
have warned him against it ; but he is dead to all counsel, all 
advice.” 

“ Let us return and keep close to him,” replied Julia in a tre- 
pidation, which again might have betrayed her. 

“ No, no, my angel, let us profit by this moment to enjoy 
each other’s conversation ; before long every corner of the house 
will be crammed ; but tell me, Amelia, answer me sincerely, for 
none can know the value of the answer but he who feels as I 
do. Your love, my own sweet girl, confess it mine, and I am 
satisfied ; nay, say so — do not nod your head, or look so down- 
cast, as if you were ashamed of confessing what I have a right 
to ask.” 

“Mr. Walsingham, surely you do not desire me to say what 
you must have known.” 

“ Nay, Amelia,” he continued, (again warming,) “you must 
say the word.” 

“ Then (oh ! heavens, do not think the worse of me for my 
candid avowal !) I do love you.” 

“She shall be mine yet,” said Walsingham to himself; and 
then turning towards her, said, “ Thank you, thank you, dearest 
Amelia ; my future conduct shall convince you how sincerely 
I love you. And now let me exhort you to listen to my pro- 
position relative to the secret marriage.” 

“Oh, spare me now,” replied the eager Julia; “do, pray, 
Mr. Walsingham, return to Robert; they will think it so odd, 
our long absence. Come, sir, I insist, — as yet^ I am to be 
obliged.” So saying, she rose from her seat, and her obse- 
quious lover, willing perhaps to coax Robert into a little play in 
order to keep up the excitement, yet determined not to allow 

VOL. II. 5 


50 


WALSJNGHAM, 


him to sacrifice much, he well knew that private play would 
suit him best, rose from his seat, and drawing the hand of Julia 
through his arm, he patted it affectionately, saying, “ How long, 
I wonder, will you keep me from all the joys I must experience 
when this small hand is mine !” 

She merely responded with an intimation to keep such con- 
versation for less crowded rooms ; and then pushing their way 
through a set of opera-dancers who had congregated together, 
and by means of elbowing some solemn Turk, or jostling some 
Franciscan friar, they reached the sofa at the conclusion of the 
conversation mentioned before, Robert merely advising Amelia 
to be cautious. At the meeting both stood- up ; Robert turned 
Walsingham away to whisper his intentions, during which time 
Amelia proposed that she should have the jessamine blossom ; 
but before this could be done the gentlemen again turned round. 
Julia was in the middle of whispering that she had accepted 
Walsingham, and began to speak of the secret marriage; so 
far, therefore, Amelia was informed of her destiny, and now 
she was willing to hear the repetition. Forgetting that she had 
not the flower, she said in an artificial voice, “ Come, Mr. 
Walsingham, it is now my turn to dance with you; I have no 
idea, indeed, of my pretty friend occupying all your time:” 
and she took Walsingham’s arm and walked in the very room 
in which Julia had been sealed. The sofa was unoccupied, 
and they soon look possession. Before their conversation is 
related, the reader will bear in mind that Julia having once 
secured her husband, was determined not to let him out of her 
sight. She, therefore, kept him in conversation relative to the 
dancers ; and as no mistake could occur between them, Robert 
knowing her to be his wife, the remarks were either listened to 
without being answered, or answered when it was evident they 
had not been heard. 

“ I am afraid, Mrs. Douglass, that this scene of idle amuse- 
ment can hardly gratify said Walsingham (he being de- 

termined to be a most frigid exemplary young gentleman) ; 
“ and if it were not to satisfy the bursting curiosity of your 
lively friend, Miss Stanhope, I should have preferred the plea- 
sure of your quiet sociable evenings to this horrid exhibition of 
half-naked females. I really feel inclined to place the advice of 
the French philosopher upon a board and walk about as if I 
was one of the bill-stickers of Paris.” 

“And what may that be?” said Amelia, whose ravished ears 
stretched with excitement. She was silting, be it remembered. 


THE GAMESTER. 


51 


by her avowed lover, lier future husband, and now was to from 
her idea of him from the conversation addressed to ati apparently 
indifferent person. 

“ He well remarks,” continued Walsingham, “ ‘ Si les femmes 
sentaienl leurs interets, elles sauraient combien la modestie, la 
decence les embellit, et, au contraire, combien la hardiesse et 
I’affectation des airs les enlaidit, et degoute les homines de leur 
commerce.’ ” 

“It is very true, no doubt,” replied Amelia ; “ but it is nei- 
^ ther the fashion to wear high dresses, nor is it very consistent 
with youth to be as grave as a judge, or as pensive as a poet.” 

“True, Mrs. Douglass, replied Walsingham; “nor is it 
quite so easy to come up to the standard of his excellence. He 
remarks, ‘ II faut qu’une jeune fille soit simple et modeste dans 
sa parure, egale, douce, honnete, et d’une humeur complaisante ; 
avec de I’esprit, et de la raison.” But you, Mrs. Douglass, 
I realise the beauty such a desirable combination might form.” 
r “ Thank you, Mr. Walsingham ; and in which of these is 
my companion, Amelia, dehcienl?” 

“ Perhaps in no one,” continued he ; “ but there is a careles 
levity about her wiiich is excusable in youth, and yet which 
■’ Mrs. Douglass at nearly the same age has learnt to discard. She 
.is deficient in that excellent consistency of conduct which is so 
'^remarkable in yourself: for instance, she would enjoy any badi- 
nage of conversation better than that which tends to instruct as 
well as to amuse.” 

Amelia bit her lip until it nearly bled; and she inwardly 
thanked the mask which concealed the glow of anger she could 
not control. 

“ But come, Mr. Walsingham, surely you admire the beauty, 
the grace, the raven hair, the light, the graceful step of Amelia. 
She is so natural in her manner, so much above art, and has so 
much more elasticity in her walk than I have : besides, her 
eyes dark as jet — ” 

“ Stop, stop, Mrs. Douglass ; in her personal beauty it must 
' indeed be a fastidious man to discover a fault.” (Amelia 
glowed with delight.) “ No, no ; I doubt if he of Sicily who 
painted the famous Venus could have selected a fairer form or 
lovelier face. It is true her nose is a little retrousse, and her 
ears are not over round : but I look to the mind ; I would have 
her pursue literature as a study as well as a pleasure : I would 
have her emulate you, Mrs. Douglass, in the employment of 


52 


WALSINGHAM, 


time, and in domestic enjoyment. ‘ Le bonhenr domestique est 
a la longue le plus solide, et le plus doux.’ ” 

“ Well, I dare say,” replied Amelia, not a little piqued, “ she 
will profit by your advice and your example ; but take care you 
do not make her a blue-belle, who, when you ask her about 
some of the occurrences of life, stops your domestic felicity by 
asking in- what year the Argonautic expedition sailed.” 

“I fear she is not much inclined to listen to me ; although I 
once thought that I, who loved her with a purity of love seldom 
witnessed, who looked forward to a marriage with her as a step 
leading to a reconciliation with my father, — for when I am mar- 
ried, I think his anger will change to delight, — might have 
gained her esteem, if not her affections. You will forgive me, 
Mrs. Douglass, mentioning this to you in such a place ; but 
your mask saves the embarrassment, and we speak as if we 
were in the dark, with only virtue and honour for our guides.” 


THE GAMESTER. 


53 


CHAPTER V. 


A WEEK had elapsed since Charles Stanhope had paid the 
visit of condolence and charity to old Jenkins, and he now 
meditated another trip. The weather had been wet, cold, and 
raw, and notwithstanding our strange mode of passing the sum- 
mers in cities, and winters amongst leafless trees, damp lawns, 
boggy lanes, cheerless fields, short days and dark nights. Stan- 
hope had contrived, in spite of the frigid indifference and lazy 
habits of his wife, to spend his time profitably ; but scarcely an 
hour had passed without his wishing again to see the poor old 
unfortunate man. He felt, however, satisfied that he had left 
him a sufficient sum to enable him to surmount the difficulties 
of his situation, — to buy the wherewithal to cover his children, 
and replenish the almost exhausted draw which contained the 
hemp, which alone constituted the occupation of his dame. 
The sun was visible, for a wonder, — the murkiness, the fog of 
the morning had been dissipated, and Stanhope, resolving not 
to allow another day to pass without fulfilling his charitable in- 
tention, mentioned the subject thus : 

“ Margaret, my love ! I have ordered the horses ; we musf* 
(and he laid a stress upon the word, which was sufficient to 
show he apprehended a slight opposition) “ ride over to poor 
old Jenkins and see his daughter.” 

“ Indeed,” replied this drone, “ I cannot go to-day. I feel more 
inclined to remain at home : it is so much trouble to get dressed, 
and the ride is long ; and no amusement when we have tired 
ourselves for nothing.” 

“ Nothing !” exclaimed Charles ; “ is it nothing to clothe the 
naked, and to feed the hungry, — to comfort those in distress, 
and alleviate the misfortunes of our neighbours ? Is it nothing, 
to extend our charity to those in want — to hear the prayers of 
the old, and to see the smiles of the young, praying for our pros- 
perity, and blessing our benevolence ? Come, come, Margaret, 
you must shake off this general lassitude of yours. I know your 
heart is good ; but, I am afraid,” he added, with a smile, for 

6» 


54 


WALSINGHAM, 


Margaret appeared moved at his earnestness, “ your liver is bad. 
Come, military obedience, madam : your servant awaits your 
orders, — the horses will be here in a quarter of an hour ; so 
away, and remember this : ‘ Despatch is the soul of business.’ ” 

. Margaret moved, it was true, but not in double-quick time ; 
she left her work, if sticking a few threads of worsted into a 
piece of canvass can be called work^ upon the table : half a 
score of penny skeins were scattered about the room, and the 
whole wore that uncomfortable appearance which the best of 
apartments would exhibit when a lazy woman nominally governs 
the establishment, and the duty of the superior is neglected, and 
the inferiors avail themselves of the same inattention. Charles 
looked round the room when his wife had quitted it ; and he 
sighed — he sighed, poor man, when he thought how little energy 
was required to make a house comfortable, and how eagerly the 
bad example of the mistress was followed in the maid. 

The horses came, and after waiting about an hour for his wife, 
Charles placed her in the saddle, and they started off, taking the 
well-known road to the cottage. They rode in silence, for 
Charles’s mind was too much occupied with the scene of wo 
he knew he must face ; and Margaret pouted her pretty lips, 
and was moody — nay, if a woman is ever so, sulky. They ar- 
rived at the cottage, but a far different scene awaited them. A 
certain degree of comfort was visible ; the floor was nicely 
sanded, the fagot sparkled and crackled on the hearth, some 
plates and dishes stood in regular lines clean and in good order. 
A girl about fifteen was occupied in arranging the different fur- 
niture ; but, before the fire, and in the same chair, was the crazy 
woman, — she was turning the wheel and pinching the hemp ; 
and when Charles stood before her, he was almost petrified at 
the cold insensible eye which was fixed for a moment upon 
him. She turned away after giving a kind of maniac smile, 
singing, 

“ * Oh, where shall I my true love find V ” 

“ Little girl ?” said ChaHes ; “ where is old Jenkins ?” 

“ He’s working in the garden, sir. Shall I call him ?” 

“Do so, my pretty little creature;” and she departed on her 
errand, thinking Charles the handsomest man she had ever seen. 
Jenkins soon returned ; his face convinced Charles that a great 
change had taken place for the better ; and in his warmth and 
anxiety he at once dfsired the old man to say what friendly 
hand had been extended toward him. 


THE GAMESTER, 


55 


Jenkins, after the first salutation, pointed to heaven and said, 
“ It is there, sir, — there ; He has been pleased to smile upon us. 
My daughter Susan is recovered so much, that she comes home 
to-day; and my boy, sir, — my poor sailor boy, — is gone to 
fetch her. Oh, sir, he is such a man ! — he is like ’em all, brave, 
generous, and forgiving. Dear heart ! how you would have 
startled to see him, who has been before death these last six 
years, a-crying like a child when he heard his mother singing 
that song about Susan. I feel so lightsome like, I feel quite 
young again. And see, sir, how my other child has put us all 
to rights : and dame, sir, she is so much recovered, that every 
now and then she knows us all ; and we sits down, and, ‘ Dame,’ 
says I, ‘ which is your son I’ and she points to John — then I 
says, and I always shiver like when I asks her, ‘ Dame, which 
is your old man?’ and she knows me, sir, thank God that she 
does, bless her old heart !” And the poor fellow passed the 
sleeve of his jacket across his eyes. 

Stanhope turned to Margaret, and took her hand. She look- 
ed quite unconcerned ; but when Stanhope proposed for them 
to go home, the natural curiosity of the woman overcame her 
habitual coolness, and she expressed a wish to remain to see 
Susan, and likewise, — not that she mentioned this, — to see the 
sailor. Stanhope entered into the feelings of the old man, and 
his generous heart warmed at the prospect of brighter days for 
the honest, hard-working father. 

“ Well, Jenkins,” he began, “ let us hope that the worst is 
past, and that now all will be right. 1 have got a nice cottage 
for you, and when I go abroad, I shall beg you to go occasion- 
ally and look after my little garden. But has any medical man 
told you to bring your daughter back ? because it sometimes 
happens that it makes people in your wife’s state rather worse 
than better.” 

“ Oh, yes, sir, thank you, the doctor as lives in the village 
said he thought it would do dame good, and that it would assist 
in the recovery of the girl, if she was made comfortable at home. 
So, sir, we are all about our different businesses now ; we are 
going to put up a bed in that corner, and we got a screen like, 
and we shall be together again.” 

“ But I wanted you, Jenkins, to move over at once to Giles 
Cottage, close to my gate ; it has been put in order for you, 
every thing is clean and nice, and you will have more room and 
a better garden.” 


56 


WALSINGHAM, 


“ I think, Jenkins,” said Margaret, “ you had better do that, 
and take advantage of this fine day.” 

“ Lord love your pretty face, ma’am ! I did not dare speak to 
you ; but now I hear the voice of kindness from such a lady, I 
do think that I could live twenty years more to pray for your 
happiness — bless you, ma’am, bless yon !” — and at that moment 
the old woman was loquacious, and said, “ Bless you 1” 

Jenkins went to the door, and he clapped his old hands to- 
gether, fixing his fingers in an altitude of prayer, and exclaimed, 
“ Here they come, my own boy and his darling sister ! I am 
glad you are here, sir, for I think it will stop my daughter from 
being too much overpowered like, because she won’t be quite 
so much herself, as I might say, when she sees your pretty 
lady ; and if we can only get her used to dame for five or six 
minutes, perhaps she may not cry so much, for she has a good 
heart ; and she has sorrowed much for her crime.” 

Margaret looked out, and at some distance she saw the sailor 
leading his sister, lie had taken her by the hand, and was, to 
use a sailor’s expression, towing her against wind and tide ; for 
as they neared the cottage Susan became more reluctant to ad- 
vance, and her brother was actually dragging her along. At last, 
on perceiving the horses, they both stopped. Margaret men- 
tioned this to old Jenkins, who forthwith despatched the little 
girl, desiring them to come home, and that the gentleman and 
lady were those who had assisted them so much. Whereupon, 
after a little conversation, in which the sailor’s arms were flying 
about as if they did not belong to him, he took hold of Susan’s 
arm, and they advanced. Susan then looked about nineteen; 
she was of moderate height, possessing a beautiful figure, with 
lively black eyes, rather a sharp yet pretty countenance, and a 
profusion of dark hair, which she wore in ringlets. Her dress 
was that of a neat country girl ; and it was evident that her shoes 
had been selected with care, and that the shawl which partially 
concealed her pretty form had been one of those many gifts 
which had led to her ruin. So true it is, that in the lower ranks 
of life the means oi gratifying vanity may be withstood; but 
the actual dress itself, the decorated bonnet or the handsome 
shawl, are fatal. She wore a common cottage bonnet, and her 
countenance, although pale and betraying sorrow, was that of a 
very pretty young woman. 

The sailor approached with the unsteady step of a seaman. 
He was about sixteen — a fine-grown lad of his age. His dark 
hair came in great profusion over the sides of his face, which 


THE GAMESTER. 


57 


his small hat was unable to conceal. He was dressed in a blue 
round jacket, a Guernsey striped frock, trousers filling tight 
round the hips, and large enough in the legs to accommodate a 
Jamaica-man with the elephantiasis ; then came the long quar- 
tered shoes, and enough string to measure the Irish giant. 

When Susan came near to Margaret, and she saw the cold 
scrutinising look, the kind of indifferent curiosity with which 
she surveyed her, the girl’s face became as red as scarlet, and 
she hesitated about crossing the threshold. Old Jenkins stepped 
forward and welcomed her. She threw herself into his arms, 
and continued crying and hiding her face against the old man’s 
shoulders. She would not untwine her arms ; and she kept 
saying, “ Father ! father!” Not another word came from her. 
And although the scene and the bustle in the cottage might have 
warmed the old dame, had she been even as sensible as affec- 
tion had believed, yet she sat quite unconcerned ; the wheel 
continued its rotatory motion, and the eyes were only directed 
to the work before her. 

Stanhope, by way of relieving Susan from her difficulty, had 
commenced a conversation with the sailor-boy, to which Mar- 
garet, who admired his straightforward yet respectful mode of 
address, joined in questioning the lad; and he, sailor like, for 
sailors are very fond of pretty faces, invariably answered the 
question of Charles to Margaret, holding his hat with both his 
hands, and twisting it round about, first one way and then the 
other, as if he were willing to make it as flat in the rim as a 
skimming-dish. 

“ How long have you been at sea, my lad ?” said Charles in 
his usual good-tempered manner. 

“ Six years,” replied the boy, looking full in Margaret’s 
face. 

“ Six years !” replied Margaret. “ Why, how came you to 
go away so young, John ?” 

“ I’ll tell you, ma’am, all about it in the twirling of a hand- 
spike. I was one evening going into the village, when I met 
two young lads just about my age now. They asked me the 
way to a public-house, and I showed them the Plough. I was 
then going away ; but one of the two said, ‘ No, d n it, ship- 

mate,’ (I begs your pardon, ma’am, but those were his words,) 
‘you sha’n’t go without having pilotage, so bring yourself to 
anchor; and as we are not six upon four now, you may sway 
away at the provision basket.’ Well, ma’am, we got talking 
about one thing and the other, when one says to me, ‘ Why, 


58 


WALSINGHAM, 


what a gulpin you must be to stick at anchor in this muddy 
roadstead,’ (to be sure it was a wet day,) ‘ when you might see 
the world and know what it’s made of! Why don’t you cut and 
run, bundle down chest and bag, and ship on board one of the 
outward-bound as a cabin-boy ? I warrant, a sharp fellow like 
you would not be long handling the skipper’s lea-keille ; you 
would soon be one of your light hands aloft, and then, d’ye see, 
you’d be independent — you’d be in America one day sailing 
alongside of the sea-serpent, which nobody but those Yankees 
ever saw yet; and the next you’d be sipping rum at Jamaica: 
then you’d be amongst the black niggers in Africa, and seeing 
them in iheir birthday suits ;’ (I beg your pardon, ma’am, but 
they never wears no clothes ;) ‘ and then, after that, you might 
be picking up gold-dust on the Gold Coast (I thought the 
whole land was gold ;) ‘ and, Lord love you, my lad ! only to 
go up the Straits and see all the fun and frolic of the different 
places ! — one day to be eating a shark, and the next one to be 
frying a flying-tish ;’ (I shook my head at that, n\dL^ 2 .m—Jlying- 
fish;) ‘ No go,’ said 1. ‘ Ay, but it is,’ said he : ‘just you ship 

yourself along with us ; we are going to the Eastern Indies, and 
so up to China ; and there, my lad. I’ll show you men with two 
tails, like monkeys, only lashed higher up. Come, fill your 
glass, my little sailor, and I’ll sing you a song,’ — and they sang 
me half a dozen. Well, sir, I was so pleased, that I made up 
my mind for a start ; and I promised to meet them that day 
week. One of them gave me a book of songs, and I learnt to 
sing one or two, to make the children dance, and mother there 
used to repeat them. . So, when the day comes, I just runs and 
takes a kiss at she,’ (pointing to Susan,) ‘for she was my fa- 
vourite ; and I stows away some money, and some traps, and 
swinging them tied up in a handkerchief to the end of a stick, 
away I went with a flowing sheet after my companions. I never 
said a word to father or mother. So, after six years, home I 
comes, and finds the old ones all alive, having escaped a fire- 
ship : though to be sure the old house was burnt : but that does 
not signify — I had got some of the shiners, and ‘ Here,’ says I, 
as I kissed my father, ‘ here’s the stuff to build houses with;’ 
and I hands over enough for him to sway away upon all lop- 
ropes for the next five years, by which time I’m thinking he’ll 
have to answer Master aloft.” 

They were stopped in the recital of the young sailor by Su- 
san’s loud scream of “ Mother 1” and instantly the eyes of Stan- 
hope and the sailor were fixed upon the horrid scene. Before 


THE GAMESTER. 


59 


the old woman, Susan had thrown herself upon her knees, and 
had begun in a low tone, so as to escape the ears of the other 
party, to call upon her mother. The old man stood by the side 
of his wife, and liad shaken her gently by the shoulder, as if to 
rouse her from her torpor: the old woman still held the hemp, 
but the daughter had removed the wheel on one side. Her en- 
deavours to arouse the sleepy forgetfulness of her mother into a 
recognition led to the increased violence of voice. It was use- 
less : a total oblivion seemed to have at last come over the 
dame; which the daughter mistook for a disinclination to par- 
don, or totally forgive her. “ Mother, mother,” she said, 
“ look at me, — it is your Susan — your daughter !” and she 
burst into a dreadful flood of tears, but they ceased instantly 
when a thought struck the girl that her mother was an idiot ; 
she approached upon her knees close to her — her eyes were 
starting from her head — she looked, she gazed intently upon 
her parent, but not the slightest sign of recognition occurred, al- 
though Jenkins leaned over her shoulder, and said in a mild 
soothing voice, “Darne, dame, ’tis your daughter,” she heard 
not — she heeded not. Susan had now placed her finger upon 
the eyelids of her mother, and she held the eyes open, looking 
into them with an expression of horror which none can paint ; 
she again called her louder and louder ; when, placing both har 
hands over her own eyes, she gave a tremendous shriek, and 
fell backward. 

Stanhope, overwhelmed with the bitterness of the scene, could 
hardly succour her; but her brother ran to lift her up, whilst 
old Jenkins tottered to the table and supported himself against 
it. Again returning sense came to the daughter — she looked 
again upon the vacant, cold, idiotic stare of’ the mother, whose 
stony sight were better likened to that of a ghost than of the 
living ; there was “ no speculation in those eyes, with which 
she did glare withal” — not a noise was heard — even those who 
had been accused of unnatural coldness held their breath. Su- 
san once more knelt before her who gave her birth ; she seem- 
ed in prayer, for her lips moved, although no sound escaped ; 
she grew nearer and nearer, as if to win her by kind and affec- 
tionate mildness ; she called her again and again, — ’twas useless 
— no sound responded, no animation came back, as if to recall 
memory — none ! but, unfortunately, the dame shook her head 
with that motion which implies a negative. The idea whirled 
through the brain of Susan ; she merely said, “ Do — oh do !” 
but again the same motion occurred. Susan looked hurriedly 


60 


WALSINGHAM, 


around her ; she fixed her eyes upon her father and her brother 
— she again looked an eager solicitation from her mother ; then 
jumping on her feet, she ran to the door, and was soon beyond 
the threshold. Her brother followed her, and brought her 
back ; but, as she entered the hut, an empty phial fell from her 
hand. Stanhope instantly seized one of the broken pieces, and 
smelt it; — it was arsenic. Immediately he proposed to pour 
warm water down the wretched creature’s throat. Whilst sense 
remained, she would have opposed it ; for on hearing the pro- 
position, she threw herself on the bed, hiding her month in the 
pillow. There was no water warm — there was no remedy 
within their reach ; and as if spell-bound to the place, they 
awaited the termination of this horrid tragedy. Shortly Susan 
became convulsed ; she spoke of the icy coldness which seemed 
creeping through every vein, and then of floods of fire coursing 
through her blood ; once she raised herself up, and her brother, 
whose eyes were swollen in tears, in vain feebly articulated, 
“ Cheer up— cheer up !” 

The deadly venom had secured the prey; a kind of maniac 
look soon flushed her eyes ; she called loudly on her mother 
and on her father ; — the one was an idiot, the other struck dumb 
by the appalling scene. She accused herself of all this horror ; 
and, oh, too deeply — indelibly — engraven on her mind even for 
the pangs of death to eradicate, she called upon her seducer — 
she implored Heaven to grant him days of happiness and nights 
of ease, and she died exclaiming with outstretched arms, as if to 
clutch her lover closer to her breast, “ My Cavendish — my 
Cavendish ! /” 

This is no fiction of poetic imagination — this dreadful and 
appalling scene is drawn from the life, and happened within 
these realms, within the last two years ; — and if we could benefit 
from the examples of the wretched, here, here is the scene to 
awake our slumbering virtue, to recall us from the paths of 
wickedness, and to make us Judge “ of the enormity of the 
crime by the mischief it produces.” There lay upon the 
bed, once the pride of the parents, whose youth and beauty 
might have secured wealth and happiness, the dead, cold 
corpse of Susan — and across it, the anguish-stricken sailor. By 
the side of the table, with his face buried in his hands, was poor 
old Jenkins ; the dame had resumed her work; and Stanhope, 
whose tears could not be controlled, led his wife — and she too 
weeping — to the door. At the very moment, the younger sisters 
came in, to kiss their returned friend ; and as they called her 
name in childish happiness, the dame broke into her song of. 


THE GAMESTER. 


61 


“ Susan, Susan, lovely dear — ” 

“ Where the tree falleth, there it must lie,” were the only 
words which escaped from Stanhope. He lifted his wife upon 
the horse; they both, as if eager to withdraw from them on 
whom the hand of Providence had so heavily fallen, started into 
a brisk gallop, and felt their hearts lighter as they increased 
their distance from the wretched. 

No sooner did Stanhope arrive at home, than he despatched a 
messenger to the clergyman, informing him of what he had wit- 
nessed ; he sent a cart to remove the furniture, and by the able 
assistance of the sailor, who now found weeping unavailing 
turned his attention to his parents, the furniture and the living 
were removed to the new cottage, and the suicide given over to 
the charge of those who 

“ Live upon the dead. 

And mimic sorrow when the heart’s not sad.” 

That Stanhope should inquire about this Cavendish was na- 
tural ; the name recalled scenes he would willingly have for 
ever struck from his heart. He had forgiven his sister, and he 
had heard, with much satisfaction, that she had made an excel- 
lent mother and an affectionate wife : but now, a life sacrificed 
through the arts of this villain aroused his activity, and although 
he reasoned, — and, some think, reasoned rightly — that in all 
affairs of this kind the woman is more to blame than the man, 
and that if the female sex rejected with becoming scorn the first 
advances of those who, they know, can never render them re- 
spectable, the misery would rarely occur. He inquired far and 
near, and soon determined that it was the same Cavendish ; for 
the time corresponded with his being in England, and the 
description of the person was the same as that which he had 
gleaned from Louisa. One man informed him that he would 
know him any where, by a cut across his wrist, which he 
remarked when the gentleman was playing cricket ; and the 
sailor said he should know him again in spite of all attempts 
to disgrace his figure-head. All this amounted to very little — 
for the bird was flown, and no one had seen him for many 
months. Trom Susan little had been gleaned as to where Ca- 
vendish had taken her, but she spoke of Dover as if she had 
been there ; but whenever her father had asked her concerning 
the man who had taken her away, she grew reserved and cried : 
and old Jenkins added, that he never knew the name of the man 

VOL. II. 6 


62 


WALSINGHAM, 


who had seduced his daughter until it came to his ear wafted in 
her last breath. 

Stanhope endeavoured to wean the sailor from his profession, 
and after various waverings from a resolution never to abandon 
the sea, the young sailor, being the only one who knew Ca- 
vendish by sight of the whole family, consented to become the 
servant of Stanhope ; and as old Jenkins’s cottage was near his 
master’s house, he felt less remorse at leaving his roof. He was 
shortly afterwards elevated to the dignity of valet-de-place, and 
was in constant attendance upon Stanhope. 

It was about a week after this, that Stanhope received a letter 
from Douglass ; and the contents determined him as to his im- 
mediate application for leave. Margaret little participated in his 
eagerness, although she could not refuse her consent. The letter 
was written in apparently low spirits ; at least not containing 
that kind of life-like animation which before had been observable 
in the correspondence of Douglass. But one part — and that 
which referred to Amelia, and her evident attachment to the son 
of Sir William Walsingham of Oakside, and moreover the cer- 
tainty that this was mutual — determined Stanhope to visit Paris 
as speedily as possible. He ran his eye over the Red Book, 
and there saw that the town residence of the baronet was in 
Cavendish-Square ; and he quietly muttered a malediction 
against the baronet for living in a place which bore the name of 
a villain. 

The leave was granted, the idleness of Margaret a little re- 
moved by the bustle, and four days after the receipt of the letter, 
and without answering it. Stanhope, brimfull of hope at the 
good alliance his sister was about to form, was on his journey 
to town. He alighted at the Arlington Hotel, and told his wife, 
who seemed quite indifferent even in the bustle of London, that 
he intended to remain tw'o days, and then proceed to Dover; 
giving as his reason the wish to see Louisa, and likewise to ob- 
tain an introduction to Sir William Walsingham. He wrote a 
note to the former, mentioning his arrival and intention of dining 
with her that day at seven o’clock, and leaving Margaret only 
the trouble of changing her dress, he sallied forth to Cavendish- 
Square. 

The house was closed — as a sailor would say, the dead lights 
were in — there were no signs of habitation — no dozing old wo- 
man, as Mr. Haynes Bayly says. 


** To peep through the dining-room blinds.' 


THE GAMESTER. 


G3 


He rapped and rung, and after waiting about a quarter of an hour, 
during which time he repeated the manual exercise, and went 
through every rap, from the postman’s to the five minutes’ tirade 
of a fashionable footman, an elderly woman muffled up as if 
fearful of facing a breath of air, just opened enough of the door 
to see the stranger ; when, perceiving he was a gentleman, she 
undid the sliding chain, which for prudence’ sake she had kept 
on, and allowed Stanhope to enter the hall. 

“My good woman,” said Stanhope, “is Sir William Wal- 
singham in town?” 

“ The good woman evidently neither liked tlie freedom nor 
the question — firstly, because she called herself a lady ; and 
secondly, because the question required an answer, and her short 
cough was harassing enough, without talking to increase it: so, 
by way of not provoking the one, and of getting rid of the other, 
she replied, “ No.” 

“ No ?” repeated Stanhope, rather astonished at the abrupt 
negative, without the general appendage of “Sir;” “pray 
where is he gone ?” 

“ France,” replied the old lady ; and this produced a cough, 
and she looked as much as to say, “ That’s quite enough for 
you:” but she was mistaken. 

“ When did he go ?” continued Stanhope. 

“Yesterday,” replied the woman; and another cough followed. 

“Is he going to make any stay there ?” asked Stanhope. 

“Don’t know,” was responded. 

“How’s his son ?” continued the inquisitive interrogator. 

“ Well,” was the answer. 

“Where is his son, my good woman !” 

“France;” and during a fit of coughing which Stanhope 
thought might introduce him to a coroner’s inquest, he departed, 
being quite satisfied it was all right, and ready to pour the tide 
of welcome news into the ears of Louisa. 

As usual, although Margaret had never stirred out and had 
nothing in the world to do, site was not ready. She had seated her- 
self at the window, and had seen one man run over by an omnibus 
without a start, and had seen a boxing-match without either with- 
drawing or being excited : she seemed quite overcome by the tliick 
atmosphere of London, and was as torpid as a boa-constrictor after 
a feast. They managed, therefore, not to arrive until half-past 
seven ; and Stanhope mistook the demure look, the rather distant 
manner, the taciturn behaviour, to having kept the stock-broker 
and general speculator from his dinner. Margaret, however. 


64 


WALSINGHAM, 


rather liked this silence, as she was too lazy to speak, and cared 
very little about Louisa, her husband or her baby. The last 
poor dear little creature had been dressed up, with very religious 
care, in all the pomp and vanity of this wicked world, in order 
to excite a little envy in Stanhope, he being childless : and it is 
not unfrequeni that these little sisterly kindnesses may be ob- 
served, 

“ Well, Louisa,” said Stanhope, “ here I am on my way to 
Paris. 1 wish I could persuade you to come and make one of a 
lively party : you seem moped to death here.” 

“ Charles, you mistake,” replied the evangelical sister: “I 
am here perfectly contented, enjoying the society of those 
Christians who do not spend their time in rioting and wantoning, 
in living amongst heretics and blasphemers.” 

“Hallo!” said Charles, quite surprised at this volley: “at 
any rate, my dear Louisa, you seem to have parted company 
with your charily ; for why the French should not be just as 
good as we are, I can’t tell.” 

“ Then I can,” resumed his sister. “ How do they spend 
their Sabbaths ? Are not the shops open for worldly traffic? Do 
not the theatres — those places of iniquity, resound with unhal- 
lowed music ? Are not balls and routs, and such like un-christian 
meetings and merriments, improper of the Lord’s Day ? And 
how, then, can a nation be collectively virtuous, which is indi- 
vidually wicked ?” 

“Pooh, pooh, my dear!” replied Stanhope; “it is just as 
well to amuse oneself innocently, as to sit still and talk scandal, 
or go to bed because Sunday is so insufferably dull.” 

“ Innocently !” exclaimed Louisa despondingly : “ as if 
amusement could be innocent of a Sunday.” 

“Some melhodistical fellow has turned your brain, my dear, 
or you are wilfully blind. Why, in this country, where you 
would force a man to keep the day as you think right, you see 
more drunken men and women rolling about the streets, than 
you would see in Paris in a week. Whereas, if you would cease 
to make people strait-laced by act of parliament, you would find 
that their innocent amusements would lead to sobriety and con- 
tentment.” 

“ And what would become of their precious souls ?” replied 
Louisa. “ Oh, what would Mr. Cantall say, to hear my bro- 
ther advocating a system in direct opposition to the Fourth 
Commandment ? — he, who would even prohibit domestic servi- 
tude on that day ; who dines on cold meat in order that his ser- 
vants may not work, but go to chapel ; and who is so correct 


! 


THE GAMESTER. 65 

^ on this point, that his servant cleans his shoes on Saturday 
night, and not even is his bed made on the Sabbath.” 

“Then he is a dirty fellow,” replied Charles, “ for his pains. 
And as for this Mr. Cantall, who 1 take to be one of those long 
slim fellows with their hair plastered flat upon their heads, and 
their coals hanging dangling about their heels, I have this to 
say : Whenever a man talks of his honesty, keep your hands in 
your pockets, for he is going to rob you ; and whenever a man 
boasts of his sanctity, it is merely a cloak for the multitude of 
I his sins. — But come, let us leave this discourse. Your sister 
Amelia is, I believe, likely to be married to the eldest and only 
} son of Sir William Walsingham, a man of large properly, and 
* certainly a most desirable connexion. My chief business in 
London was, after I had seen you and Walton, (who looks as 
grave as a sick monkey, and w^ould warrant the suspicion that 
. the stocks were falling, or the tracts too plentiful,) to proceed 
direct to Paris — not, as my pious sister would say, to riot and 
to wanton, but to do my duty towards Amelia, — to see her pro- 
perly settled in life, and, if I can, to persuade Mr. Honor to 
cross with me, to give me his friendly aid, and likewise to ar- 
range a settlement for young Houghton. If, therefore, you feel 
inclined to be present at your sister’s wedding, I would advise 
you to pack up hastily, and do a proper piece of Christianity in 
regard to her, and the unholy nation, whom of course you will 
endeavour to reclaim. 1 think Amelia would like upon such an 
occasion to be surrounded by her family ; and a better lime could 
never be chosen than when we are to increase it by a new brother.” 

Walton, who had never opened his lips, and who was sadly 
perplexed between religion and the Stock-exchange, at last broke 
his silence. 

“ I think, my dear,” he began, addressing his wife, “ we may 
proceed to Paris after the settling-day. 1 can carry over the 
further account ; and on the more serious subject, I think there 
is no option when it becomes a duty. I am ready and willing 
to go, for I never have seen this modern Babylon ; and I under- 
stand they always get the earliest information relative to Cories 
Bonds.” 

Margaret managed by great exertion to get out to Louisa, 
“Oh, do come.” The sedate and sober Louisa wavered much 
between the inclination and her duty, and before they had part- 
ed, it was arranged that the Waltons should follow ; and Stan- 
hope and his wife proceeded to Paris, and arrived there about 
midnight, at the Hotel des Princes, on the night of the mas- 
querade. 


6 * 


66 


WALSINGHAM, 


CHAPTER VI. 


“ Come, come, Mr. Walsingham,” continued Amelia, still af- 
fecting the voice of Julia, “ you must npt quarrel with her about 
a trifle. You will find her more discreet, and perhaps steadier, 
than you expect ; and Amelia lias whispered to me your con- 
versation this evening with her.” 

Walsingham started. “I had hoped,” he said, “ that she 
would have kept the secret.” 

“ Then you do not know our sex quite so well as you ima- 
gine, Mr. Walsingham. The world, with its usual liberality, 
has declared a woman incapable of keeping a secret: you would 
not surely wish Amelia to disappoint the public ?” 

“ No, no, certainly not,” replied Walsingham, abstractedly; 
“ but on my father’s account.” 

Apropos de replied Amelia; “are you aware that 

Sir William VValsingham has arrived in Paris, and that it is an- 
nounced in Galignani ?” 

“ It cannot be,” replied Walsingham hurriedly; “ he would 
not venture into the city where I resided ; but I will see the 
paper.” 

“ You need not be in such a hurry to see that which will re- 
main quietly enough. But to return to the point: in what man- 
ner, Mr. Walsingham, am I to consider the conversation which 
Amelia has mentioned to me ? I beg of you to give me an ex- 
plicit answer, as I shall of course relate it to Mr. Douglass.” 

“ The devil !” muttered Walsingham; “caught in my own 
web, fixed beyond the power of retreating. — As a declaration of 
my sincere affection, — and I earnestly solicit you to forward my 
views, — I told her ” 

“ — Of the secret marriage, Mr. Walsingham ; to which, I for 
one, will never consent. If your father is in Paris, the business 
can be arranged between Douglass and himself. Indeed, we 
expect my brother Stanhope.” 

“ Your brother Stanhope ! Why, you are not a Stanhope.” 


THE GAMESTER. 67 

“ I beg your pardon, Mr. Walsingham,” said Amelia, as she 
untied her mask ; “ but, / am Amelia.” 

“ Amelia ! !” 

“ Yes, Mr. Walsingham, Amelia — the lady with careless 
levity of youth — deficient in that excellent consistency of con- 
duct — ” 

“ Stop, for God’s sake, Amelia !” 

“ — She who would enjoy any badinage of conversation, ra- 
ther than — ” 

“ For Heaven’s sake, my dear girl ! — ” 

“ — She with the nose a little retrousse, and the ears not suf- 
ficiently round — ” 

“ I do implore you, Miss Stanhope- — ” 

“ — The lady, to gratify whose bursting curiosity — ” 

“I’ll hear no more,” said Walsingham, rising from his seat; 
whilst Amelia very leisurely tied on her mask again, and said 
in the feigned voice, “ Perhaps Mr. Walsingham would prefer 
the quiet domestic, sociable evenings, to the exhibition of half- 
naked females? I wonder, Mr. Walsingham, who brought us to 
this exhibition ?” 

“ Answer me this question, Amelia ; did I dance with you 
this evening?” 

“ In spite, Mr. Walsingham, of the light angelic tread, the 
raven hair, &c., you danced with Mrs. Douglass — ” 

“ — And,” interrupted Walsingham, “spoke to her on this 
sofa, mistaking her for you ?” 

“ Yes, sir, and made me an offer of your hand ; which she 
without my consent accepted for me, and but for the declaration 
you have just made of your sincere afiection, and your request, 
that 1 might forward your views, I should have totally discoun- 
tenanced.” 

Walsingham heard her not. His mind naturally reverted to 
the unfortunate conversation with Mrs. Douglass, in which he 
had discovered the whole levity of his conduct. He saw the 
cloud about to burst, and as a means of avoiding the deluge, he 
again seized Amelia’s hand, and said, “ I have only to repeat 
what I said to Mrs. Douglass, and to urge your acceptance of 
my hand. You must be aware of the sincerity of my affections, 
the honour of my intentions.” But before he got an answer to 
his question, Mr. and Mrs. Douglass joined the party. 

“ We are come to be your guardians, young people,” said Ju- 
lia ; “ and we recommend you to take possession again, of our 
first sofa, now disengaged, and there watch the dancers.” 


68 


WALSINGHAM, 


“ With all my heart, Mrs. Douglass,” said Walsingham ; for 
he was anxious to avoid an answer which, to avoid a greater 
evil, he had been obliged to provoke. 

The party took up their situations again on the same sofa. 
The music was lively, the whole scene exhilarating — yet each 
of the four persons on that sofa were far from happy. The 
time was fast approaching for Douglass to put in force his des- 
perate resolution. He felt how bitterly he had deceived his wife 
— he knew the secret was only in the keeping of a flighty girl; 
— he felt how completely he had compromised himself, his wife, 
and his sister-in-law. — Inwardly he made thousands of resolu- 
tions, which he knew himself too weak to carry into execution; 
and being i]ow between remorse, shame, anger, and vexation, 
he might have found a quieter scene, and one more consonant 
with his wishes, than the giddy whirl of pleasure around him.— 
Neither was Julia without great alarm. She recalled all the 
sayings of Walsingham, and wondered most at that, “ Does she 
know where she now is ?” Then she foresaw but a melancholy 
termination of Amelia’s happiness : Walsingham could not be 
sincere — and yet she had accepted him for her sister’s husband. 
Amelia was nettled at the defect of her personal appearance ; 
and Walsingham saw himself upon the brink of a precipice, 
down which he must inevitably roll, or (orego the ruin of Dou- 
glass. Each person was fully employed in examining their own 
thoughts, and kept a strict silence. 'I’lieir eyes perhaps fell 
upon the dancers, their ears perhaps caught the sound of the 
music ; but they were indiflerent to both, and perfectly confined 
to their own hopes and fears. 

Douglass recovered first; the hour was come, and he was 
resolved to play. It was requisite to give Walsingham a hint 
that he was about to withdraw to change his mask, and in order 
so to do, he asked him if there was no room for refreshments — 
that he was thirsty. Walsingham understood the hint, and re- 
commending the ladies to remain where they were, he Conducted 
Douglass to a small room, where he soon turned his domino 
and put on a coloured mask. 

“ I urge you,” said Walsingham, “ to abandon your scheme. 
Rely upon it, you have chosen the worst night for the purpose 
you meditate : the rooms are on these evenings crowded, and 
women surround the table ; you will be unable to make any 
calculation, trom the eternal interruption you will experience; 
and independently of that, you have lost enough for one night.” 

“It is to regain it that I go,” said Douglass, greatly excited. 
“Here is my only chance: with you, there is one eternal tide 
of good fortune against me.” 


THE GAMESTER. 


69 


“And here,” interrupted Walsingham, “is one eternal pull 
in favour of the table. Besides, you cannot imagine what might 
be the consequences of your playing : that old fellow who spoke 
to you at dinner some time back is here ; he will know you 
through any disguise, and he would not hesitate at any means 
to stop your ruin. It is discreditable, my dear Douglass, 
is this public play: gentlemen may amongst themselves 
risk a few hundreds, but public play is public vice. Be advised 
by me : change the domino again, and I will give you your 
revenge to-morrow at my rooms for any sum I may have been 
fortunate enough to win. I can only have your interest at 
heart ; you know my affection for one of your family. Let 
me implore you to forego this determination, of which I foresee 
some mischief.” 

“ You are a strange composition, Walsingham, and I cannot 
but thank you for your kindness. You are the man who intro- 
duced me here — you are the man who warned me of the impos- 
sibility of success without a steady perseverance ; and, to tell 
you the truth, I think the old man was right when he said, that 
no man was worth plucking in public, who had undergone the 
ceremony in private. Go back to the w;omen ; keep them in 
conversation : I shall soon join you.” 

“That will be when your money is all gone: — until then, 
good night.” 

Douglass had put in his pocket no less a sum than fifty thou- 
sand francs : fifty notes contained the sum. He walked with a 
steady step to the rouge-et-noir, room, and believing in fortune 
more than in calculation, he commenced immediately and threw 
down a note of one thousand francs. 

There is, generally speaking, on the night of the balls at the 
Salon, very little high play. There are a vast number of per- 
sons who hover round the table, and who play for five francs or 
a napoleon ; but gamesters, excepting those flushed with wine, 
admire a perfectly silent room, where the attention is not dis- 
tracted. The mention of the sum of money, which must be 
declared, turned the eyes of the bystanders towards the person 
who thus risked it. The old man was there ; his eyes and his 
tongue were never idle. 

“ I wonder what fool that belongs to,” he began quite near 
enough for Douglass to overhear. 

“ That man in the scarlet domino and mask,” replied his 
friend. 

“ He ought to be whipped home to bed for a fool,” continued 


70 


WALSINGHAM, 


the old man. “ Let us see how much he pays for his ball- 
ticket. There it goes — those croupiers will have it all ! — an- 
other — another. Why, what a poor gamester he must be ! 
three times it has run on the black, and he still continues to 
back the red.” 

Douglass began with a tide of ill luck. His plan seemed to 
be, to remain true to one colour ; if he losV, to double ; if he 
won, to continue his first stake : but he soon got irritable, and 
began to play carelessly. 

“ Ay,” said the old man, “ it only wanted that to complete 
it. Dash it down, my boy — you'll soon go home with empty 
pockets. And yet it sickens me to see these licensed plunder- 
ers walking oflT with the wealth of my countrymen : he is one, 
Fll be sworn, or he would never be so very foolish. I shall go 
to the dancers, and thus escape a little mortification.” 

On entering that room, the elderly gentleman found a vacant 
place on the sofa. Both Julia and Amelia had spread them- 
selves out in order to retain the seat; but the stranger, who 
was unmasked, advanced, and, with that politeness for which 
he was celebrated, begged that he might be permitted to occupy 
the place uritil the guardians of such angels should return to 
claim it. The request was accorded ; and the elderly gentle- 
man, after stretching out his legs, and apparently endeavouring 
to make his hands reach as far as possible down his perambu- 
lators, sat back giving a heavy sigh. Even the ladies looked 
round, and their eyes twinkled through all the defences they 
had raised. 

“ It is not love, fair ladies,” the old gentleman began, “ which 
makes me sigh. I have sighed enough for that in youth ; and 
when the time was passed for myself, I sighed for my daughter, 
who married a foreigner, and who soon removed her from any 
control of mine. I then sighed for r^y loss of money, — some 
of it was lost here. Now, 1 sigh for my foolish countryman in 
the next room, who is throwing away money by handfuls 
which would relieve hundreds in penury, and existing upon an 
excitement which will ruin his health and shake his nerves.” 

“In this house, did you say?” inquired Julia. “I thought 
we were here to dance, not to gamble.” 

“In the private houses in Paris,” replied the old man, “ there 
is always a little dash of ecarle, to excite the most lazy ; but 
here, playing is professional — the public gaming-house is of 
course supported by public gamesters ; and all this music and 
lighting, this eating and drinking, will be paid for by the foolish 


THE GAMESTER. 


71 


flies who keep tasting of that poisonous stuff which ultimately 
impoverishes the very blood.” 

“ Does it follow,” asked Julia, “ that a public ball must ne- 
nessarily engender public gaming?” 

“ By no means, madam : but the Salon is a public gaming- 
house, which to attract more flies into the spider’s web, offers 
a few luxuries near its meshes. No fowler spreads his snares 
with greater certainty than these licensed plunderers ; but of all 
the fools I have ever seen, I have never seen a greater one than 
the tall Englishman in the next room.” 

Julia’s suspicions had been before excited : she now thought 
her husband had been absent a long lime; she became fretful 
and impatient, and yet afraid to leave her place, to be seen near 
a gaming-table. Amelia was well aware of the sudden shock 
she would experience if the truth was suddenly told her, and 
she whispered in her ear the propriety of withdrawing from a 
place which seemed to be rather questionable. To this there 
was no objection on the part of Julia, but she did not like to 
move without her husband, and at this moment a mask and 
domino passed near them. “ Surely,” said Amelia aloud, 
“that is Mr. Walsingham. How very strange that he should 
walk there, and forget his duty to us !” 

“Walsingham!” said the old man; “ surely you cannot be 
of his party ! There are few men I would not rather hear men- 
tioned by ladies than that fellow. You stare, madam, even 
through your green gauze ; but I seldom withdraw an expres- 
sion, as, I hope, I never use a harsh word unguardedly.” 

“And wharobjection, sir,” said Amelia, bristling up, “can 
you find to Mr. Walsingham?” 

“ He never injured me,” replied the old gentleman coolly ; 
“because, I was a little too old lor him : but 1 never yet knew 
the friend — do you mark me, madam — the friend of Mr. Wal- 
singham, who ever escaped unscathed, or who was not light- 
ened of his purse and ruined in his reputation. And who 
knows if his name is Walsingham !” 

“I do,” replied Amelia: “he is the son of Sir William 
Walsingham.” 

“ 'rhe son of Old Nick himself, more probably,” interrupted 
the stranger. “I tell you, 1 have known him under different 
names ; and the last one he assumed was — ” 

“ Oh, Mr. Walsingham,” said Julia, as he approached, “ I 
am glad you are come. Where is Mr. Douglass?” 

“ Douglass !” interrupted the old gentleman ; “ that is him. 


72 


WALSINGHAM, 


ril save him, in spite of himself.” Then, turning to Walsing- 
ham, he said : “ 1 wonder you so far forget your old habits, as 
to bring your friend to the Salon des Etrangers, when you 
might have been more useful to him at home.” 

“ May I ask,” said Walsingham, “ the meaning of this sneer- 
ing insult, and what right you have to interfere in our occupa- 
tion of time ?” 

“ Take care, young man, how you speak, or I shall advert to 
former times. The hectoring vapour of a ruined man — ruined 
in reputation for ever — is not likely to shake my intention. 
The mask you wear can hardly cover the blush of shame 
which has coloured your ears. I will send your husband to 
you, madam : he has a coloured mask and domino.” 

“ No, no,” said Julia, aloud, “ thank God, then, it is not him, 
and I breathe again.” 

“ Sit still, madam, I implore you,” said Walsingham. “ This 
gentleman labours under a great mistake — in short, he is famous 
for his errors and his imprudence.” 

“Silence, sir I” replied the stranger; “I have never been so 
imprudent or so covered with errors as to hide myself, or shel- 
ter myself under a name that did not belong to me. If this 
gentleman is the one by whose robbery you roll in a carriage, 
i recommend you to get your passport vise'd before ten o’clock 
to-morrow.” Saying this, he withdrew. 

“ What can he mean, Mr. Walsingham?” asked Amelia. 

“ Poor fellow !” replied Walsingham, “he is mad, — has long 
suffered under a certain aberration of intellect, which generally 
overpowers the little reason he ever possessed when he is near 
music. He ruined himself at play, and now has taken up the 
other extreme. Sit still, Mrs. Douglass, for a moment, and 
your husband, who is in the refreshment-room, will return.” 

“We can go there and meet him,” said Julia, hastily: “I 
feel very unwell, and I should like to go home.” 

“ Then I will go and order the carriage. By the time it is 
at the door, Mr. Douglass will be ready also. If you move, 
you will lose your seats ; and you may yet have to remain a 
quarter of an hour.” 

“I cannot remain quiet,” said Julia ; “there was something 
in the expression of that stranger which has frightened me. 
Did he not say we were in a public gaming-house, and named 
one who stands exactly opposite to our hotel ? How can this 
be, when we drove for a quarter of an hour before we arrived ?” 

“ Poor old fellow !” said Walsingham ; “ his senses are all 
abroad.” 


THE GAMESTER. 


73 


Here there was a confused noise heard, which came from the 
gaming-room ; and a partial rush was made by all the people 
who heard it, to gain admission. Neither could Julia’s ears 
deceive her, for her husband’s voice was plainly audible. Dis- 
regarding the advice of Walsingham, she hastily arose, seized 
the arm of Amelia, and casting aside all those little civilities by 
which some succeed in passing through a crowd without elbow- 
ing a lane, she pushed her way into the room, and, in spile of 
the pressure around her, succeeded in gaining a position nearly 
opposite her husband. There she saw a man in a coloured 
domino and coloured mask, under the greatest excitement, and 
by his side the elderly stranger. Whatever might have occa- 
sioned the confusion, all was over now, nnd the parlies who 
had rushed in like a torrent, released, now began to rush back 
again. Julia alone remained, like a statue linked to the arm of 
a living being. Her eyes were fixed upon the coloured mask, 
and her ears seemed standing out from her head, like those so 
beautifully, so correctly figured in the listening slave. She 
tried to catch a word; the croupiers were busy arranging the 
four or five packs of cards for the forthcoming deal, and not 
even the words of the elderly stranger, who seemed imploring 
the tall man not to continue playing, could reach her ears. The 
cards having been duly shuffled by all the croupiers, were at 
last arranged by the dealer, who placing a blue card in between 
the pack, offered them to the tall gentleman to cut ; it being 
almost an invariable practice to allow the man playing the high- 
est stake to cut the cards. The stranger did it ; and on the 
croupiers calling out to make the game, he threw down two 
notes on the black. He was asked if they were to the same 
amount as the last, and he nodded his head. 

It w'as a moment of the greatest suspense. Julia’s look had 
never been turned from the tall man — her mouth was partially 
open, and the quiver of her lip alone bore evidence to her ter- 
rible anxiety. AmeJia perhaps felt a compression of the hand 
or a tremulous motion of the arm, but she never spoke, and ap- 
parently did not breathe. Amelia, who knew well in what 
house she was, kept her eye on the dealer of the cards, and not 
nnfrequently turned them away towards Walsingham, whom she 
regarded as her future husband ; and notwithstanding the sinis- 
ter report of the elderly gentleman, she easily concluded that he 
was more or less mad, and consequently did not credit a word. 
It is very hard to relieve the mind of a good impression, and 
equally difficult, when under that delusion, to credit a bad one. 

VOL. II. 7 


74 


WALSINGHAM, 


She had not in her own mind a shadow of a doubt but that 
Douglass was in the refreshment-room, and not knowing the 
value of the notes on the table, looked on with careless indif- 
ference. The cards were counted rapidly — the red was pro- 
claimed winner — the rakes were at work, when the old stranger 
called out in French, and so just in its pronunciation that he 
might have been mistaken for a Parisian, “ Stop ! Count the 
cards again.” The dealer, who well knew he had counted erro- 
neously, swept away the tell-tale of his villany ; upon which 
Douglass made a grasp at and succeeded in obtaining his notes. 
One of the croupiers immediately rose and called upon the po- 
lice — many of whom are in constant attendance to remove losing 
players, who not only lose their money and their tempers, but 
not unfrequently their reason — and a most serious confusion 
occurred. Fortunately, however, one or two gentlemen had 
counted the cards and had noticed the mistake ; and they 
stepped forward and declared that they would never play again 
if the croupier did not proceed without further interruption, and 
pay the amount of the stakes down. This was done, and the 
elderly gentleman, taking the mask by the hand, asked him if 
what he had just witnessed was not enough to convince him 
that, independent of the run of the table, there was a run against 
which no man could successfully compete. 

All arguments were useless; — again the money was staked — 
again it was lost. By degrees the notes grew fewer and fewer, 
whilst agitation increased, and words muttered through the fixed 
teeth, in which even the devil was invoked with a religious fer- 
vour, came audibly upon the ear. At length the last of all the 
store was on the table. The croupiers regarded it with indif- 
ference, and heeded with still less indifference the many curses 
of ill fortune which liberally flowed from the mouth of the loser 
in low inarticulate tones. He now watched the cards as they 
fell on the table with an eye which glittered through the mask ; 
the hand was feverish and convulsive, the ears stood out like a 
dog’s when listening; the very hair on the head seemed to 
move. The colour lost — the last note was swept away, and the 
loser left gazing on the table with a vacant stare. 

Julia had throughout the scene steadily watched the player. 
She who regarded a slight stake as grievous gaming, shook wiih 
horror when three thousand francs, the utmost limit allowed, 
was rashly risked, and as she drew Amelia closer to her, she 
said, “ What a scene ! who would gamble, to suffer the torments 
<»f that unfortunate man 1 How thoroughly do I despise any one 


THE GAMESTER. 


75 


who thus might impoverish a family for a momentary excite- 
ment ! I wish that Douglass could see this, and be acquainted 
with that strange old gentleman. Again he loses ; his whole 
frame seems convulsed — Ah ! that is his last note — perhaps his 
all — how he trembles with anxiety ! it is gone, and perhaps he 
is a beggar. Look how he continues like a statue.*’ 

At this moment, Douglass, unable to contain his temper, broke 
out in a fit of cursing and execration, and tearing off his mask, 
stood recognised by his wife. She gave a loud shriek and fell 
into the arms of Walsingham — and that shriek recalled Douglass 
to his senses. She was hurried out of the room, attended by 
one of the commissioners, who with the assistance of the old 
stranger carried her down stairs and placed her in Walsingham’s 
carriage. Douglass followed close, confounded at this sudden 
eclaircissement which he himself had occasioned, and told the 
servant to drive home, whilst the old man said, “Just across the 
street to the Hotel des Princes.” Julia had recovered, although 
she had not spoken, and was perfectly sensible that she was not 
one minute in the carriage on her return home, although a quar- 
ter of an hour had been expended in driving her to the ball. 

Amelia, who at once saw through the whole artifice, was 
shocked to think Walsingham could have lent his aid to so pal- 
pable a deception ; and her anger, great from this cause, was 
heightened when she found that Walsingham never attended 
her home : nor was he at the carriage door when that door was 
opened. Julia suffered herself to be led to her room by her 
husband ; but no sooner had she reached it, than she desired 
him to leave her to her own reflections for a short time. This 
however was denied her, and before a flow of tears came to her 
relief. Stanhope stood by her side, with her sister Margaret. 
This timely interference restored her much. Amelia interposed 
her authority, declaring Mrs. Douglass too fatigued to be more 
excited ; and her sister Margaret, who had not even proffered a 
kiss, was glad enough to retire to rest, 


70 


WALSINOHAM, 


■i 


CHAPTER VII. 


When Stanhope had determined on visiting Paris, he told his 
sailor valet John Jenkins to pack up and get ready to accom- 
pany him, and John, who had heard much of France and French- 
men from those with whom he had sailed, believed he was go- 
ing into the claws of the black gentleman himself. He, how- 
ever, had imbibed the notion that Frenchmen lived upon no- 
thing but frogs and soupe maigre ; that they were all thin, lan- 
lern-bodied people, and that one Englishman could easily mas- 
ter any three of the “ great nation.” He therefore prepared for 
his voyage with as much caution and foresight as if he had been 
going in a trader to New South Wales ; and conscientiously be- 
lieving that all natives of France were for ever at war, at least 
within their own breasts, with the English, he resolved to seize 
the first opportunity of showing himself a worthy son of the 
sea, and one determined to come to blows upon the most trivial 
occasion. 

A great part of Stanhope’s luggage had been forwarded by the S 
wagon ; and very much astonished w'as he to find he had to pay ' 
a sum for the conveyance of it which far exceeded his expecta- 
tions. However, as he had to think and act for his wife, whose 
indolence was excessive, and being rather fatigued with his tra- 
velling, he gave the money to John, desiring him to take a re- 
ceipt; and then, continuing his cautionary remarks, he said, 

“ Mind you count all the boxes, and have them packed to-mor- 
row morning carefully in the steam-boat; and be mindful to 
keep your eye upon them during the trip across the Channel.” 

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered John. 

“And mind, John,” continued Stanhope, “that we have not 
to wait for you, or for the luggage : you must be up early.” 

“ Ay, ay, sir.” 

“ And be very careful, that in the event of Mrs. Stanhope’s 
sea-sickness, you are at hand to attend upon her.” 

“ Ay, ay, sir.” 

At dawn, John was busily employed in shipping the trunks 


THE GAMESTER. 


77 


and various hampers ; he attended the stowage of them down 
below, keeping the things be thought most requisite uppermost. 
By eight o’clock the bell had rung to announce the departure of 
the packet; and Mrs. Stanhope for once in her life appeared 
excited, or perhaps frightened, when she saw herself launched, 
as it were, into the deep ocean. She turned from the sameness 
of the scene before her to the white cliffs of Dover, which were 
fast receding. Even she, cold and insensible as she was, felt 
those sensations of regret which are ever experienced by persons 
when first they leave their native land. No one can then com- 
mand his feelings : it is like severing the head from the body ; 
all we ever knew of life lies behind us ; before, is doubt and 
uncertainty. Then came the increased roughness of the water 
as the packet drew further from the land ; and if any very fine 
sentimental feelings were rising in the heart of Margaret, she 
soon found it requisite to think of much more common-place 
things than rolling oceans, terrific hurricanes, shipwrecks or 
founderings, to which she believed herself in imminent danger 
the moment she embarked on board the steamer. There was a 
simultaneous roar for the steward, and sickness had overtaken 
the passengers. Stanhope, although he for some time mastered 
the disagreeable sensation, at last gave way before the enemy, 
and he and his wdfe were both sea-sick. 

In the mean time,'John, although on board a steam-boat, felt 
himself at sea, and that feeling of freedom which ever attaches 
itself to the sons of the ocean was felt by him. He walked 
about the forecastle as if that part of the boat was his own ex- 
clusive right; shoved some passengers, who were staggering to 
and fro, out of his way ; and then casting his eye aloft, for the 
fore-sail was set, he gave a sneering acknowledgment that it was 
a sail, in spite of the sooty blackness of the canvass. His man- 
ner soon gave umbrage to one of the crew, who had been on 
board a man-of-war, and who now, having passed the years of 
his activity aloft, had become a sailor on board of a steam- 
packet. 

“ Hulloa, shipmate 1” he began; “do you think the fore- 
castle belongs to you, that you’re tacking and wearing, and 
backing and filling, like a collier tiding it up the river 1 I’m 
blessed if you don’t put me in mind of the captain of a frigate 
who was in quarantine at the Motherbank, and swore he did not 
mind how long he was kept there, as long as no other ship was 
allowed to ride in the roadstead besides his own. Now, I 
should very much like to know if you learnt your manners and 

7 ^ 


78 


WALSINGIIAM, 


got your sliding gunter boots (John had on top-boots) on board 
a inan-of-vvar ; for Fd have you to know that the forecastle was 
never made for a shore-going chap with a long coat and short 
trousers.” 

“ Lord love you 1” said John ; “ a pretty fellow yon are for 
a forecastle-man, who cannot tell a seaman by his figure-head 
without looking how^ he’s rigged. Why, I knew you for a man- 
of-war’s man in spite of your black face ; and if you could see 
as far through a deal plank as a gimlet, you might have seen 
from my topping the officer over those sea-sick savages, that 1 
knew the stem from the stern, and have heard many a shot whiz 
as loud as that cursed hot whaler which comes spilling out of 
your hollow main-mast, which lets out smoke enough for all the 
galley funnels of the Channel fleet.” 

“You talk of shot, shipmate,” replied the seaman; “why, 
you are hardly old enough to remember a good broadside ; but 
if so be that you’re inclined to hear a yarn, whilst all your peo- 
ple abaft are bellowing for buckets, and swabs, and stewards, 
just bring yourself to an anchor under the lee of this paddle-box, 
and Fll tell you of what you never saw. But, first of all, take 
your muzzle-tacking off, and let’s know how you ever got your 
legs into those leather buckets ; for you’re the first man who 
ever served before the mast in a man-of-war who took to wear- 
ing top-boots.” 

“ Why, shipmate, at this moment I don’t exactly know what 
1 am myself^ ^so 1 don’t expect you to tell me. Fm valet, as 
they calls me, and rubs down my master’s clothes ; then, when 
Fm ashore, I looks after the horses and rubs them down a bit; 
then, I rubs down missus’s riding habit; then, I handles the 
scrub-brooms, and has a sprinkle and scrub at the decks of the 
house ; then, 1 stand all day as messenger boy ; besides being 
purser’s steward, master at arms, captain’s steward, and half a 
score of other appointments. So, do you see, as I was afraid 
1 could not get through all my work without some support for 
my legs, I bought these new pair of boots.” 

“Fm blessed if you have not put your foot in it with a ven- 
geance ! Here am I, the hazy side of fifty, with nothing to do 
but now and then man the jib-halyard; for our captain was a 
lieutenant during the war, and he thinks it looks like old times 
when he roars out ‘ Forecastle there !’ ‘ Sir, says I.’ ‘ Man 

the jib-halyards,’ says he. ‘ All manned,’ says I : for when my 
hands arc upon them, that is all they’ll get. ‘ Hoist away the 
jib,’ says he. * Belay,’ says I ; ‘ Sheet,’ says he ; ‘ Belay,’ says 


THE GAMESTER. 


79 


I. And then, no sooner is tliat done, than it’s, ‘ Man the jib 
down-haul,’ and we go through the consarn of hauling it down : 
but he seems to-day taking great care of that pretty woman, and 
somehow or other, I never could understand why, but if a pretty 
woman comes on board, he has half the buckets in the craft 
ready ; but if she’s an ugly one, she may reach for that, or her 
soul out, before he would lend a hand. It’s devilish odd, John, 
that’s your name, isn’t it? that all sailors, whether officers or 
foremast-men, may be trusted with any thing else but a pretty 
woman. Well, day passes away, and to-morrow comes, and 
life goes between a covering of soot, a little French brandy, and 
now and then a song, and the jib halyards.” 

“ Well,” says John, and a jolly life too ! But I have plenty 
to do, and never in mischief ; and now I’ve got to go amongst 
these long-legged Frenchmen, who, if ever they knew me to 
have been an English sailor, would properly sarve me out.” 

“ They are a queer set,” replied the steamer, “ and no doubt 
of it ; and although every day of my blessed life I go over to the 
coast, yet I never go ashore ; for their Custom-house officers 
would turn a man inside out to find a quid of tobacco. They 
hate me as they do the devil, because I laugh at them, point to 
the sea, and give them a hint, that if they show their dirty faces 
outside, we’d sarve them as we sarved them on board the 
Nymphe, in 1793.” 

“ Tell us that yarn, my lad, and I’ll unpack the provision- 
basket, where I have stow^ed away some brandy for master, 
when he gets to John Crapaud’s land.” 

“ To be sure I will, and I like to do it; for, do you mind, we 
are getting so rusty with this peace, that I‘m blessed if I think 
the lads of the present day will know a round shot from a ball 
of rope yarns ; and as for the names of the officers, who we all 
looked up to as fellows to eat Frenchmen afloat, they’ll be 
quite forgotten without the action is now and then rubbed up to 
clear the cobwebs of their memory. 

“It was on the 17th of June, 1793, that we started our an- 
chors from Falmouth, in the Nymphe frigate, commanded by 
Edward Pellew” ; — he’s swapped his name now, and they call 
him Exmouth, because he lives at Teignmouth : so you see 
there’s something in the mouth after all. Well, away we goes 
with a nice breeze, and steers away towards the Start Point. 
We were out for a cruise, and we had heard that one or two 
Frenchmen had mustered up courage enough to come within 
sight of old England. Well, we makes the Start Point, and 


80 


WALSINGHAM, 


away we steered to the southward, keeping onr eyes wide open, 
and giving a regular brush of the horizon at sunset and daylight. 

“ It was just as eight bells was striking, and the boatswain’s 
male was calling ‘ Larbowlings ahoy 1’ that the look-out man 
forward called out that there was a strange sail to leeward; and, 
my bobs ! didn’t we all turn our eyes to the south-east as if we 
expected a prize. Well, it was, ‘ Hands, make sail, and no 
sleep for the middle- watch gentlemen.’” 

“ Man the jib-halyards,” interrupted the captain of the steam- 
boat. 

“ All manned, sir,” roared the old seaman, who had kept the 
end in his hand, expecting this usual manoeuvre. 

“ Hoist away the jib,” roared the officer ; “ Belay — 
“ Sheet “ Belay and down sat the old boy again, having got 
the down-haul stretched along. 

“ I’m blessed if he won’t wear out the sheeve and the shell of 
that block yet !” he began, “ for he dances the sail up and down 
about twenty times. It makes those ladies think he’s a great 
navigator, and that Captain Cook did just the same when he 
sailed round the world in search of niggers. 

“ Well, as I was saying, when the jib-halyards clapped a 
stopper on the yarn, it was, ‘ Hands, make sail,’ and by five 
minutes after four a. m, we had borne up, and were under all 
canvass, in chase, and the stranger did the same ; but I’m blessed 
if I think it was done to run away : no, John, I think it was done 
to clear away for action ; for no sooner had the Frenchman, and 
a gallant fellow he was, got all right for a frolic, than he shortens 
sail, hauls up his foresail, lowers his top-gallant sails, as much 
as to say, ‘ Come along a little further out, and we’ll have a 
regular morning’s watch amusement, instead of holystoning the 
decks and wearing out the marines’ knees.’ 

“ Well, we all thought that at it we should go like devils ; but 
we were told not to fire, although we were close on board of the 
Frenchman, at six o’clock, when both captains began to hail, 
and Pellew, taking off his hat, and making the Frenchman a 
most polite bow, roars out, ‘ Long live King George !’ upon 
which we all opened our mouths, and gave three such cheers, 
that I’m blessed if the ship did not tremble as if we had fired 
both broadsides at once. Well, sir, the Frenchman hearing 
these polite cheers, steps forward with a red cap in his hand, 
which they call a cap of liberty, and waving, said — ” 

“ Forecastle there ; man the jib down haul,” 

“ All manned, sir.” 


THE GAMESTER. 


81 


“Haul down the jib.” 

“ Forecastle there,” said the captain. 

“ Sir,” replied the old sailor. 

“ Gather the jib on the boom, and stop it neatly down.” 

“ Ay, ay, sir.” 

“ 1 wish the devil had the captain by the hind le^,” said John. 
“ Why can’t he let his gingerbread boat paddle along without 
disturbing his crew 9^' 

“I axes your pardon, Mr. John,” said the old boy; “but 
although this craft is a steamer, she’s no gingerbread boat 
neither.” 

“ I begs your pardon, shipmate ; I was only a little adrift be- 
cause that jib down-haul was a stopper on your yarn : so never 
mind the boat or the gingerbread, but start ahead again.” 

“ She’s as fine a craft,” said the old sailor, with that admira- 
tion which seamen ever have for the ship to which they belong, 
“ as ever skimmed across the Channel. I’ve known her run a 
race with a breeze of wind, and get across before it overtook 
her : and as for a duck in a seaway, just mark how easy she 
rolls ; ray sarvice, Mr. Gingerbread, that sticks in my throat, 
and I should like to wash it down.” 

“ I understand the signal,” replied John, and in a moment he 
dived below and brought up a bottle of brandy. “ Here it is, 
my lad, and proper good stuff as ever was made. I thought 
master might be sea-sick, and missus quarmish, so I brought it 
for them ; but as I feel rather queer myself, and you have got 
some gingerbread in your throat, we had better manage a small 
allowance ourselves.” 

“ That’s all right,” said the old sailor, drawing breath with 
difficulty after the copious potation ; “ and now I can go ahead 
again, as the captain says to the engineer. Well, shipmate, as I 
was a saying, the French captain waves a red cap and jabbers 
something to his crew, who gave three cheers, ghosts of ours, 
and monseer, with his hullabaloo chaps, set up a howl of ‘Vive 
la republique !’ which means, success to every man who cuts 
his master’s throat, or makes him as poor as his servant. We 
all of us stood gaping and wondering what would come next, 
for we were running up alongside, and the Frenchman had his 
colours up as proudly as if lie was going to show us the way 
into Brest, whilst one of the crew stepped aloft up the main 
rigging with the red night-cap in his hand, and screwed it on to 
the mast head, and down he comes from aloft, and looks at it, as 
much as to say, ‘ We are never going to strike those colours,* 


82 


WALSINGHAM, 


“ ‘ That’s all right,’ said the captain : ‘ and when I put my 
baton my head, my lads, do you begin to see if you can’t take 
that night-cap from the mainmast-head.’ We got all ready, 
every gun was pointed, the matches were all blown, our eyes 
were all on the captain, when, after making a low bow to the 
Frenchman, — and I’m blessed if ever I saw so much politeness 
before, — we began to murder each other, he raised his hat to his 
head, and — ” 

“ Forecastle there,” said the captain of the steamer. 

“ Hulloa !” said John in a towering rage. “ I suppose you 
want that jib up and down again.” 

“ Sir,” interrupted the old sailor. 

“Clear away the jib, and let’s know when it’s ready for 
hoisting.” 

Away went the seamen, and after the usual order delivered in 
a slow pompous voice, for grandeur never articulates quickly, the 
steam-boat was under half her canvass, the old sailor soon got 
sealed, having the end of the down-haul in his hand, and after 
taking another glass to refresh himself, proceeded : — “ That jib’s 
the life of me, it keeps me in exercise ; and I should grow as 
round as the boiler below if I had not to trot backward and for- 
ward like the shaft of the engine. — Well, John, up goes the 
captain’s hat, and before he had placed it on his crown, smack 
went a broadside into the Frenchman, and we stopped their 
parley-wous, and their scraping and bowing. We only left 
some with one leg to turn round upon ; but they did not take it 
quietly at all,-^not a bit of it, for they set to work in right good 
earnest, and I never saw less ceremony or politeness on either 
side. 

“ Both ships were running alongside of each other within 
hailing distance, and we both did our best to load and fire with- 
out spending much time upon that duty. We began this harn- 
mer-and-tongs work at fifteen minutes after six, and we had oim 
quarter of an hour’s good hard slapping work without any alter- 
ation taking place or any masts fallen, when all of a sudden Mrs. 
Crapaud hauled up about eight points, and we after her ; but still 
she fought like a good one, and when, at seven o’clock, the 
mizen-mast of the Frenchman fell, why we gave three hearty 
cheers again.” 

“ What are you looking at?” said John. 

“ Why, I saw the captain put his speaking-trumpet to his 
mouth ; and if your pretty missus had not spoken at the lime, 
the jib would have come down again.” 


THE GAMESTER. 


83 


“ Well, then, bear-a-hand and get on, mate, the mizen-mast 
was down.” 

“Ah ! right enough, John ; it was just after it fell that the 
Frenchman, whose wheel had been shot away, paid round off 
and fell right aboard of us, coming stern on the jib-boom, passing 
between our fore and main-mast. Now we had not been blazed 
away at all this lime for nothing : our main-mast was none 
the better for the large pieces which were out of it, and stood 
none the steadier for the main and spring stays being shot away, 
for the Frenchman had come right abeam of us, and the jib- 
boom end was against our main-mast head.” 

“ Avast heaving, old boy, about the jib ! that captain of yours 
is looking this way, and if he sees your lips move, he’ll see the 
word jib, and we shall be done again for five minutes.” 

“ Well, then, he can’t understand this : the jib-boom was — ” 

“ Forecastle there ! man the jib down-haul.” 

“ Oh, Lord ! oh. Lord I” said John, “ I have heard of the 
patience of a man not unlike jib in sound, but I’m blessed if 
he could have stood this ; for, to a dead certainty, had he sailed 
under that chap with the trumpet (although he might whisper 
from the funnel-head to the taffrail), he would have hung himself 
with the halyards of that confounded jib.” 

“ Now then, shipmate, at it again ; we must nearly come to 
a finish before we hear of the jib again.” 

“Likely enough, John, without some strange passenger 
comes on deck ; and then up she goes again. — Well, as I was 
saying, the jib-boom of the Frenchman gave way, our mainmast 
stood as stiff as a midshipman on half pay, and both ships fell 
alongside of one another : then we got at it again like two 
hungry bull-dogs, for we could not be separated, as the main- 
topmast studding-sail-boom iron of the Frenchman got foul of 
the larboard leech rope of the main-topsail, and held us as fast 
and in as good a position as we could liave wished. The cap- 
tain thought the Frenchman was all for boarding, and he thought 
it would be just as w^ell to be ready ; but no sooner w^re we on 
deck than it became evident that our adversaries were not much 
inclined for that fun ; so we look a gentle hint from our captain, 
and away we went on board of her. I don’t know, John, if ever 
you were consarned in one of those affairs, but I promise you 
it’s no joke swallowing an iron pike, or being ready prepared for 
the cook by being spitted : but when there is this fun to be 
played at, in spite of all the Frenchmen say, there’s no man in 
the world like an English sailor. We drove them before us like 


84 


WALSINGHAM, 


sheep ; and although occasionally they faced about and bravely 
defended their ship, yet the chance was gone. Our lads having 
gained a good fooling, pushed along ; nothing could stop us, 
neither spear, boarding-pike, pistol, musket, nor cutlass ; the last 
stand they made was but for a second, when down came the 
colours and the Cleopatra was a prize. That's the way to do it, 
John ; no half laughs and purser’s grin, — no trying when you 
are within range, then hauling off to load the guns : — no, no, — 
on we go cutlass in hand, three cheers for our king and our 
captain, stand from under all our enemies, and in fifty minutes 
from the time we began, the Cleopatra was our prize. Well, 
down comes this precious cap, which was made of wood and 
daubed over with red paint. There was some kind of a spear fas- 
tened to it; and I believe it was the first cap fora liberty man that 
we had had on board an English ship since the commencement 
of the war, for this was the first frigate taken ; and whenever I 
get a Frenchman on board who has got a drop of brandy, I set 
him down and give him a regular good true and faithful account 
of some naval victory ; but I always like this best ; and 1 tells 
them that we have sarved them out once or twice, and are all 
ready to do it again ; but as for those shore-going chaps all 
covered with green and silver, I never speaks to them, because 
they came on board one day, and when I was telling them a 
little spice of my mind about frigates and other vessels. I’m 
blessed if they did not order from that day that we should not 
smoke alongside the wharfs, and they keeps us shivering in 
winter like monkeys in frosts, and won’t let us have a fire to 
warm ourselves. Til tell you what happened to me the other 
day : I was just going on shore, when — ” 

“Man the Jib-halyards forward!” 

“ Oh ! it’s no use,” said John, “ I can’t stand it no longer, if 
you can ; and I’m blessed if I don’t go to sleep.” 

“ All manned, sir.” 

“ Hoist away the jib.” 

“ Now, that man,” continued John, “ is what I call a regular 
fool ; he thinks those passengers take him for a great officer, 
and the very man whom he thought to captivate by the rough- 
ness of his voice is an old admiral. Fm off down below for a 
caulk, old boy : so take another drop. If I hear the sound of 
the jib down-haul, I shall know you are taking your daily exer- 
cise.” 

The Stanhopes in course of time found themselves alongside 
the wharf at Boulogne ; the crowd were kept off by means 


THK GAMESTER. 


85 


of ropes, and the passengers landed, conveyed to the Custom- 
house hard by, the passports examined, and the victims, under 
the several charges of the several commissioners, on their route 
to their hotels. Only John remained on board ; and there he 
stuck close to his hamper, like a sentinel over his charge. 

Why don’t you go on shore ?” said the commander. 

“ No, I thank you, Mr. Jib Halyards, I’ve got something 
here to take charge of ; and I’m blessed if any Frenchman alive 
overhauls it without having a skirmish with me.” 

By this time the gend’arme, whose business it was to see the 
steamboat clear, and superintend the landing of the luggage, 
came up and desired him to walk on shore. Jack stood like 
a man expecting to fight, and after measuring his long adver- 
sary from head to foot, told him in plain English he might go 
to the place where he conscientiously believed all Frenchmen 
congregated after their relations had paid the funeral fees. 
Upon this well-understood ejaculation, the gend’arme called 
one or two more of his fraternity, and Jack was forcibly ejected, 
examined, and despatched. He ran to his master, and made 
loud complaints that he could not be responsible, — no, not even 
if his master was starved. 

“Starved!” said Stanhope; “what the devil is to starve us 
here, and what has our luggage to do with starvation?” 

“ Do with it !” said Jack in surprise ; “ why, all the provi- 
sions for the long cruise is in the hamper. I knew you nor 
missus either could not live upon frogs, so I laid in provisions and 
wine enough for a month. I’ve brought over some real good 
brandy, lots of eggs, for they can’t get the frogs into them ; and 
I’ve stowed away some bread, and butter, and hams. If these 
•hungry scoundrels only smell the purser’s store-room, we must 
live upon their cursed nastiness and swallow animals no Chris- 
tians ever ate before.” 

Stanhope could not help being amused at the prudent fore- 
sight of his faithful man John ; but no persuasion of his could 
convince him that there was no apprehension of short allow- 
ance ; and Stanhope saw that he should have no little trouble 
with his servant, who, although he was so faithful, was mightily 
scrupulous lest the honour of England should be compromised. 
Jack’s reason for having shipped a pair of top-boots was that 
he might not be suspected of being a seaman ; but no disguise 
would have been effectual : his suspicions that every body 
approached him to do some bodily injury, kept him perpetually 
on his guard ; and long before Stanhope had succeeded in get- 

VOL. II. 8 


86 


WALSINGHAM, 


ting his dinner, his man John was safely lodged in gaol for 
having, against all laws of France, inflicted a most tremendous 
hit upon the nose of a Frenchman, which caused a copious flow 
of that which, in kind remembrance to the land about Bordeaux, 
has been christened as claret. This detained the travellers : it 
required money more than justice to release him, and only made 
John more resolute in his determination to take the law into 
his own hand, and inflict the penalty upon any of the discon- 
tented subjects of France. At last, after a volume of oaths most 
liberally bestowed upon the postilion and their boots, Stanhope 
and his wife were packed up for Paris, and John and the lady’s I 
maid were in the rumble. Away they went, whips cracking, j 
carriage creaking, smack into every gutter the driver could find, i 
going down, and rattling and shaking over every paved piece ) 
they could muster going up hill. Even Margaret was kept \ 
awake, for sleep was impossible ; and John, who was sufii- < 
ciently civilised to pass his right arm round the waist of the 
maid lest she might hurt her delicate back, amused her by 
sweariug at all frogs and Frenchmen. 


THE GAMESTER. 


87 


CHAPTER VIII. 


The suspicions which Julia had long entertained in silence, 
for she had never had breathed a word even to her sworn friend 
Amelia, now broke upon her in all the force of truth ; and she 
fell assured that the large sum of money she had seen sacrificed 
by her husband was not by. any means the first which had 
tended to enrich the coffers of the Salon. Her idea, that hav- 
ing the place where Houghton was sacrificed constantly before 
her husband’s eye, he might be led to avoid the shoal over 
which the breakers so distinctly rolled, was erroneous ; and we 
are not certain if the publicity of errors does not, by exciting 
curiosity, rather swell than diminish the victims. Sleep never 
came to close her eyes : how far ruin was already certain, re- 
mained uncertain ; how far any provision might have been made 
for her son, was likewise doubtful ; and how soon all the gay 
apparel of Fortune might be exchanged for the more sombre 
hues of poverty, was unknown. She could not believe one 
word her husband said : he had evidently deceived her, and 
gave her the double pain of seeing with her own eyes and hear- 
ing with her own ears the degradation of her husband. Still, 
she loved him : she had never been warped by the cold ways 
of this unfeeling world ; she had been bred in a village, and 
nurtured in the country ; the vicious contamination of large 
cities had never reached her unsuspecting heart, and she even 
then loved, and could not bear to despise the man with whom 
she had at the altar sworn to receive for better for worse. 

During this long night she endeavoured to fortify herself for 
the morrow. She had now to conceal from others her bitterest 
feelings : she had to appear contented when she knew no com- 
fort. That night her hands were frequently clasped as she 
prayed Heaven to avert worse consequences than poverty ; and 
her prayers, long and frequent, were more for the guardianship 
of her husband than herself. Hour after hour, as time ever 
lingers in pain and misery, slowly ticked through the night of 
darkness she remained awake. Still, there was a beam of hope 


88 


WALSINGHAM, 


through the thickest cloud. Stanhope had arrived, and through j 
him she calculated she might ensure a reformation ; but, to meet * 
her husband, — to meet him with liar stamped upon his pale 
countenance — and quivering lip, there was the trial ! Long 
before the usual time of rising she was alone in her bed-room. 
Her husband had crept from her side without one word having 
passed, and the door was scarcely closed before it was again i 
opened by Amelia : she threw herself into Julia’s arms, and I 
burst into a flood of tears. 

Julia instantly thought more of her friend than of herself: 
she began the work of consolation, but was interrupted by 
Amelia. 

“ Tell me,” she said, “ has any thing passed : have you spo- 
ken one word to him ?” 

Not a syllable. When he awoke — if he slept, he crept 
silently out: you must have watched for him.” 

“I did : more than an hour have I been seated in the adjoin- 
ing room. I could not sleep — for I felt my love sacrificed : I 
cannot but like, nay, love Walsingham ; whilst I feel he must 
have led your husband, and been a partner to the deception of 
last night.” 

“It is a painful discovery, Amelia, for us both. You are 
yet free ; although promised, your brother may save you from 
the alliance you have consented to form. But for me, what 
remains ? — can my husband, if I once despise him, really love 
me ? — can a man feel himself an object of esteem and affection 
who has been abased by his own wife ? Never ! the pride of 
their sex revolts against submission to our weaker nature ; we 
may guide by affection, but we can never rule by it ; and I 
could but ill bear to see my husband’s eyes withdrawn from 
mine, like a coward who dares not look his adversary in the 
face. But I have sworn to leave* all others and cling only unto 
him ; and as Heaven and yourself are the witnesses to this 
oath, no time, no circumstances shall ever estrange me from 
him : I have formed a resolution how to act, and I will never 
disgrace him or myself. Let us consider your case : we must , 
be satisfied of the respectability of Walsingham. I cannot for- 
get the words of that old man ; from him we might glean the 
truth, for he is not cautious to conceal it : Stanhope can intro- 
duce himself to him, and we may arrive at a safer conclusion 
than a hasty marriage.” 

There was a slight rap at the door, and her maid entered. 
She looked frightened, and fearful to speak before Amelia, — > 


THE GAMESTER. 


89 


“ Quick,” said Julia ; “ do not stay shivering out your words : 
what brings you here at this early hour? and what have you 
seen to cause this tremble ?” 

“ My master, ma’am,” replied the servant, “ is busily em- 
ployed packing up his clothes ; he has ordered his cabriolet, 
and I can’t help thinking he is going to fight a duel. There 
has been all night great noises in the street, and, Lord help me ! 

I have seen more unlucky omens than ever I did before.” 

“ Tell your master I wish to see him,” said Julia. “ Ame- 
lia, my dear, leave me alone ; there must be no witnesses to the 
painful meeting : only mind, if the cabriolet arrives before he 
comes up stairs, then run to your brother, and tell him to hin-' 
der my husband’s departure.” 

She was alone in the room which opened into that in which 
her child was sleeping ; she sent the nurse away, and knelt by 
the side of the bed ; but her prayers were hasty and inarticulate, 
for although her lips muttered the words which her heart dic- 
tated, yet were her ears pointed to catch the sound of those foot- 
steps never until now dreaded to Be heard, and the mind, ill at 
ease, was not solely fixed upon her God. She started up, for 
she heard his approach : the door was opened of the outer room, 
and closed ; she looked — her husband stood by her bed-side ex- 
pecting to find her there. His face seemed worn down with 
care and vexation, and as he turned to advance into the inner 
room, there was a tear coursing down his cheek. It was but 
one spring : with outstretched arms she rushed into her hus- 
band’s, and fell senseless on his shoulders. He held her there, 
and looked upon this scene of distress which he had occasioned ; 
and sadly contrasted was it with the sleeping innocence of his 
boy ; — his heart too full, — for his shame plainly showed he yet 
had a heart to feel,-^and he could not contain that living spring 
of water, the best attestation of a manly and contrite heart. Gen- 
tly she raised her head as she recovered, until her eyes met his ; 
then she saw his tears, and disregarding every cause she had 
received for rebuke, she kissed them again and again, hastily 
ejaculating, “Thank God — thank God, you have not left me! 
— you thought to do it, Robert,— to have left me and that inno- 
cent child. There is no occasion for such cruel conduct; for, 
as there is a God above, I love you tenderly and sincerely. 
There, — dry your tears; they ill become a man, excepting in 
excessive sorrow.” 

“ How can I, dearest Julia, look on you I have so cruelly, sg 

8 * 


90 


WALSINGHAM, 


wantonly abused ? I did intend to leave you, I did even medi- 
tate self-destruction.” 

Slie clasped his arms, and looking him full in the face, whis- 
pered in a hurried murmur : “ Have you no fear for eternity, 
that, thus uncalled, you dare appear before Him?” 

“ I feel,” he continued, “ the wretch I am : and yet it looks 
as if the hand of Fate had led me on. You have made me more 
wretched by your kindness. Perhaps my pride might have 
supported rne, had you shunned me : but thus to receive me 
unmans me quite.” 

“ Listen, Robert, to me. I feel myself now above my sex, 
for 1 have conquered their worst feeling — revenge. From this 
moment, not one word ever passes my lips ; it was a dream last 
night, which those tears have dissipated : no rebuke, no open 
reproof, — or, what is worse, no cowardly hint or distant innu- 
endo, — shall ever fall from my lips. I ask only one favour — 
nay, two : your love as constant and as true as when first we 
married ; and, since it is above you to conquer a disposition, to 
fly from it to our country seat, there to remain in comparative 
seclusion, and for that child to recover by prudence the loss 
which a temporary aberration of intellect might have occa- 
sioned.” 

Douulass hung down his head and made no reply. She 
watched him long and anxiously: no answer was made. 

“Speak,” she said, “and let me know the worst: is your 
love estranged from me ?” 

“ As Heaven is my witness,” replied Robert, “ no ! I love 
you, — 1 adore you ; but I am so much fallen in my own esteem, 
that I fear you : I tell you, Julia, I dare not answer your ques- 
tion.” 

“ Why not, Robert? You have already answered what I 
feared from your silence the most. The other is easy : a few 
days may fathom the character of Walsingham ; and if he is the 
man he represents himself to be, we can after the marriage re- 
turn home.” 

“ Home 1” ejaculated Douglass; “ we have no home.” 

Julia’s eyes were riveted upon him, as if to satisfy herself 
that the great excitement of the past night had not in reality 
driven him to madness. His eyes, though abashed, were rea- 
sonable : there was no vacant stare, such as idiotism entails on 
age, — there was no flash of fury as beams in the glance of a 
maniac ; but there was deep remorse, and worse — melancholy. 

“ Have I asked,” continued Julia,. “ too much ? is the request 


THE GAMESTER. 


91 


to forego that which must end in ruin unreasonable ? — See there, 
Robert, as that little pouting angel, with his face fluslied with 
sleep, seems to smile upon you, — have you no duty you owe to 
him ? This is no place for him ; here, beset by temptation 
which you have not resolution to overcome or avoid, we day 
after day sink more and more into poverty: at home, we can 
economise, we can live prudently and frugally. Promise me 
but this — to return to Longdale, and never shall this morning’s 
conversation again be intruded upon you.” 

“ I cannot — I dare not promise that I never can perform. 
Julia, promise me not to upbraid me with my perfidy — not to 
scorn me for my baseness, and the words which hang upon my 
lips, and whicli fear alone restrains from uttering, shall be spo- 
ken : but until that promise is made, I am for ever silent.” 

“ It is my duty to do as you desire — my wish to do that 
which can alleviate any sufferings ; but why this agitation con- 
cerning so common a question? 1 would only ask you to fore- 
go the Italian journey for the greater quiet of home. Why not 
return there ? — You do not, my dear Robert, look as you usually 
look ; what can so alarm you ?” 

“ Now, I know you will despise me, — indeed already has the 
word escaped your lips — when you saw me, in the frenzy of 
the moment, stake the last of the sum, which never should have 
been realised. Julia, Longdale is not ours — it is sold !” 

Julia started back from him in alarm. “Sold!” she repeat- 
ed ; “ and the money for the purchase — ” 

“ — Is lost — gambled away, thrown to sharpers.” 

“ And are we beggars ? are we absolutely, irrecoverably 
ruined ?” 

“ Not quite. You have forced from me that which I would 
have wished some other to have disclosed. It was your sweet 
forgiveness of my last night’s imprudence which has made me 
bolder than the impoverisher of his wife and child should be: 
but I cannot recover what is lost ; the rest I leave to your dis- 
posal.” 

“ My God ! my God 1” ejaculated Julia : “ Longdale sold ! 
the money dissipated ! that boy a beggar! — worse, excepting 
his death or his sickness, could not have befallen him. But 
something is left: as you value the word you have pledged me, 
let the settlement drawn up by poor Verity be signed.” 

“It would be useless ; the property on which this settlement 
was made no longer exists : but all that is left, I swear most 
solemnly, shall be instantly settled upon yourself and child.” 


92 


WALSINGHAM, 


“ Stop, Robert. For myself I caro not the value of the mean- 
est trifle. I am your wife, and neither poverty nor deceit shall 
estrange me from you. As faithful as I was in affluence, so will 
I be in poverty : my affection shall increase with the necessity 
of greater affection, for I love you in spite of the ruin you have 
entailed upon us. — It is needless to hang down your head — this 
is no time for tears ; this instant show me the account of the 
losses, and let me have the satisfaction of knowing that we are 
not absolute beggars. Fortunately, every thing is paid here, and 
I do not owe one franc in Paris. — But before we begin, remem- 
ber this, — our misfortunes must be kept an entire secret ; we 
want no words of pity expressed with a malicious sneer. We 
can retire from Paris, and in seclusion seek a less dangerous 
asylum.— Nay, look not so suspiciously upon me: as I live, 
and hope for forgiveness hereafter, never will I recall this con- 
versation to your mind. In return I ask for those evenings of 
innocent recreation of which I have been lately deprived ; let 
your wife be your companion and your friend. I almost fear 
to trust you from my sight : but you could not leave me now, 
when I can forgive all but your absence.” 

“ I never thought, Julia, to have fallen so low in my own es- 
timation ; and reckless, improvident, thoughtless, criminal, as I 
have been, I should feel my parting with you my greatest misery. 
If my future conduct can atone for the past, trust once more to 
him who has deceived you, and we may yet be far from beggars, 
and our child far from the inheritor of misery. Your voice has 
reclaimed me when advice from others failed : if it is possible 
for the gamester to become honest, lliat miracle you have work- 
ed in me.” 

“ Then I am satisfied, — nay, I could almost bless the decep- 
tion which discovered the error. Come, come, we must not 
look too much on the dark side ; there may be a gleam of hope. 
Have you kept an account of your losses, so that no mistake 
could occur?” 

“Yes, I have recorded them faithfully, and each time that I 
looked at them, made Useless vows of amendment.” 

“Bring me the account directly: I must be satisfied now, 
where I should have thought it an impertinence to have in- 
truded. In half an hour I shall be dressed, and here in my own 
room we will arrange our future proceedings. Mind you re- 
ceive Stanhope properly : you must shake that gloom from your 
countenance, and learn from me to bear misfortune, since that 
misfortune is to lead to domestic comfort.” 


THE GAMESTER. 


93 


Julia now underwent the misery of the toilet; she never be- 
trayed the least uneasiness of her mind ; and the long restless 
night, with all the fatigue it had caused, the care-worn counte- 
nance, the pallid cheeks, had been removed by the excitement 
she had undergone. Even now her face looked more cheerful 
than usual, for she had, in spite of the heavy loss, entertained 
some hope that much yet remained: and so much did that 
charm of life- illuminate her countenance, that her servant re- 
marked, she was glad Mr. Stanhope had arrived, for her mis- 
tress looked so much better already. 

No sooner was the toilet completed than she sent to apprise 
her husband. He came instantly with the heavy account of his 
losses ; and if Julia was startled at the first announcement of 
this calamity, she was still more shocked when she saw the 
heavy sum which had passed to Walsingham. At this, the 
blood forsook her cheek, — he must be a gamester ! and the old 
stranger’s words rose, up confirmed. 

On her expressing her surprise and regret at this discovery, 
Douglass boldly stood forward to protect the character of his 
friend. He told the truth, — that at first the play was insignifi- 
cant, and that the stakes were increased at his request; that 
Walsingham had steadily recommended him to avoid playing, 
had warned him of the dangerous odds against him at the Salon, 
and that even at the very last he had counselled him to avoid 
running the risk he had done, and told him of the probable re- 
sult ; that the fifteen thousand pounds which he had won, had 
been the result of continued good fortune, which Douglass could 
neither beat by play, nor turn aside by one good favourable cur- 
rent of the fickle goddess. 

“ This, no doubt,” replied Julia, “ is true, since you say it is 
so ; but to whom is Amelia about to be married ? — a confessed 
gamester ! This enormous sum is not the result of one night’s 
misfortune, but of a succession of fortunate events. Now, in- 
deed, I can well account for the animated appearance of this 
man when he left his deeply-studied discourse to play with you. 
It is strange, but I regret the loss of this money more than the 
four times heavier loss by which the Salon has profited. — Ro- 
bert, I ask you a favour. 1 see we yet have enough to keep ns 
in respectability — that by prudence we may yet recover our- 
selves. Now let us do an act of justice to Amelia; let us find 
out this old stranger, and from him learn the character of Wal- 
singham. I leave this to you. The worst, thank God, is 


94 


WALSINGHAM, 


known ; let ns hope for a future of greater ^ase and more ra- J 
tional amusement.” 

When Julia entered the breakfast-room, it was remarked by- 
all that she looked most healthy and happy, and that although 
Douglass’s countenance had become much care-worn, still there 
was a brightness about him which seemed like returning health. 
The parties met with the greatest cordiality ; Margaret expres- 
sing herself surprised to find any comfort in Paris ; and Stan- 
hope was, as usual, all activity to get his various trunks and 
boxes safe to his hotel. He seized the first moment to send his 
sailor valet for this purpose. John was excessively indignant 
at the continued cry of “John Bull,” which met his ears, — for 
Frenchmen have not even as yet become perfectly reconciled to 
top-boots, excepting on jockeys’ legs. And thus the first morn- 
ing passed : no Walsingham appeared; the luggage was safely 
housed, and the Stanhope family installed. 

Amelia had not quite so easily recovered the deception of the 
preceding night, and although perfectly in the dark as to the 
knowledge of the loss, she was quite satisfied that a painful dis- 
covery had been made, and from the words of the servant, was 
more than apprehensive, that some great and unfortunate result 
might occur. Great, therefore, was her satisfaction at finding 
the current of domestic felicity gliding onward without inter- 
ruption. She caught the lively glow of countenance from Julia ; 
and Stanhope remarked that love gave a greater beauty to the 
cheeks of the young, than all the mornings’ walks of spring, or 
the exercise of frosty winter. All seemed animated, all happy, 
but Douglass ; in his mind all the evil he had entailed not only 
on himself and child, but on Amelia, forced itself in spite of the 
vacant lauirh by which he hoped in forced hilarity to suffocate 
the rising devil. That Walsingham had never been his school- 
fellow, he well knew; that he had invited him to the house, 
after any one might have suspected his character was true ; that 
he had seen the gradual approach of pretended affection without 
stepping in to stop it, was evident: and what might not be the 
consequence of this imprudence, since Amelia’s affections were 
undisguisedly placed upon Walsingham ? 


THE GAMESTER. 


95 


CHAPTER IX. 


The first day after the arrival of the Stanhopes passed with- 
out a visit from Mr. Walsingham; which Stanhope thought 
strange enough for a lover, and one who only the night before 
had made a regular downright offer, which had been as regularly 
accepted. 

Douglass, who remarked this omission, resolved at once to 
discover the reason of his absence ; for Amelia, apprehensive 
that it was occasioned by sickness, was becoming seriously 
alarmed for the life of the villain to whom she was so unfortu- 
nately and sincerely attached. 

Having told Julia of his purport, he repaired to the lodgings 
of the man who had involved him almost in total ruin. On in- 
quiry if Walsingham was within, he was answered that the per- 
son so designated had left his apartments that morning, and had 
taken with him some of his effects ; and although they could 
not tell him where he had gone, yet that they suspected he had 
not left Paris. 

To Douglass’s inquiry if any person had called upon him 
since two that morning, he received for answer that some people 
generally called at his house at that hour, that they remained 
about twenty minutes, and then left one at short iivlervals from 
the other. 

It was a mystery which even Douglass could not unravel. 
“ If,” thought he, “ flight had been his object, he would not 
have merely changed his abode ; besides, who could accuse 
him ? If I had followed his counsel, it is true, I might have been 
more seriously ruined than at present, for I should have conti- 
nued play ; but he warned me of the consequences, and I stand 
afraid to meet the gaze even of my own wife.” 

Thus pondering on his way back to his hotel, he h-ardly no- 
ticed the small knots of people who had congregated together, 
and who were busily employed in discussing some measures 
which the government had published in the Moniteur. If there 
were more violent gesticulations— more compressed lips — more 


96 


WALSINGHAM, 


anxious hands passing over more healed foreheads,- Douglass 
scarce noticed for some time : but even he, whose heart was full 
to the brim, coidd not pass an indifferent spectator to the scene 
around him. tie was now opposite Tortoni’s ; and even if his 
thoughts could have banished the outer world entirely, yet the 
concourse of people through which he had to force his way 
would have roused his slumbering attention. 

Aware that his wife would anxiously await his arrival, he en- 
deavoured to push through the crowd ; but he shortly found 
himself so hemmed in, lliat all advancing or retreating was im- 
practicable. On every side he now heard loud and vehement 
complaints against the government ; each man’s voice seemed 
raised beyond its common pitch; and open sedition was bruited 
about without fear of even the long ears of the police. In front 
of Tortoni’s, a young man seemed addressing those near him ; 
and by his side, he thought he once caught a glimpse of Wal- . 
singham : but the human tide was much agitated, and he was 
carried to and fro as the impulse of those behind him was com- 
municated to those around them. 

In vain he endeavoured to understand this popular commo- 
tion, then so very uncommon in Paris : he could only glean in 
the din of words one uninterrupted flow of curses upon the king 
and his ministry. The bigotry of the one and the tyranny of 
the other seemed the burden of the complaint, which was ac- 
companied by every malediction which the nimble tongue of a 
Frenchman could murmur. 

This all seemed inexplicable to Douglass. Ever since he had 
resided in France, he had remarked the internal quiet which 
pervaded the whole country : every one seemed satisfied. The 
conquest of Algiers had contributed its share to excite the enthu- 
siasm of France ; for the failure of the attack had been regarded 
as almost a certainty by that nation whose fleet under Exmouth 
had humbled the haughtiness of the Dey. To the flattering 
gazette of conquests, was added a long account of the immense 
treasure which was on its way to the French capital ; and the 
French, naturally a lively nation, and a people wrapped up in 
military glory, could not contain the satisfaction they experienced 
as the news was promulgated. The other nations of the wmrld v 
were likewise pleased that the efforts of France had been ' 
crowned with success. They saw before them a spot long 
since in the hands of barbarians now offering a focus for general J 
civilisation throughout Africa : the chains and their rivets were j 
struck from the limbs of the slave, — trade would be enlarged, — | 


THE GAMESTER. 


97 


another harbour would be opened to the world without the fear 
of pirates ; and hardly any conquest met with more general 
satisfaction from the entire Christian world than the conquest 
and the capture of Algiers prior to this day. France had no rea- 
son to fear a comparison in regard to internal pacification with 
any nation of Europe : the new elections, which had occupied 
a small portion of public attention, had terminated in a satisfac- 
tory return ; the liberty of the press, — the freedom of public 
discussion, and all those rights which give and uphold a liberal 
government, restraining the advance of the one, and curbing the 
slightest step of power between the people and the crown, — was 
delegated to men whom the nation had just selected. What, 
then, could have occasioned this sudden tumult, in which the 
voice of moderation and reason was drowned in the wild cries 
of “ Vive la Repuhliquel-^aux armes ! aux armes T Even 
at that moment, had the idol of France attempted to turn the 
tide of popular feeling by any act indicative of reason and cool- 
ness, he would have sacrificed his popularity. The French once 
excited are not easily calmed : no men listen to reason or mo- 
deration with less attentive ears when their blood is a little heated 
than Parisians. If they fail to relieve themselves by a copious 
discharge of words, blood invariably follows. 

The first torrent of abuse having lost, from the wideness of 
its current, a portion of the strength and power it maintained in 
its narrowed channel, other words besides curses became audi- 
ble. “ The liberty of the press suspended !” cried one, whose 
infuriated looks betokened the low radical partisan. “ The new 
chamber again dissolved !” roared another, who had lately given 
his vote and secured the return of his favourite. “ The fran- 
chise of the electors of the smaller colleges annihilated !” cla- 
moured a beardless hatch of insurrection ; whilst, as each con- 
tributed his grievances to swell the tide, the cry increased of 
“ Aux armes I aux armes 

Around Paris at that moment there were twenty thousand 
choice troops ; they were supported by trains of artillery, and 
flanked by the finest cavalry of that great country ; but on this 
evening, Monday the 26th July, the same feeling seems to have 
animated every breast : even the soldier and the police were 
inactive, and the first impulse was given unchecked by any au- 
thority or power. The unexpected blow to the liberties of France 
seemed alike to have astounded the upper and middle classes ; 
whilst the lower class caught the opportunity thus offered them 

VOL. II. 9 


98 


WALSINOHAM, 


of either resisting the ordinances, or of making them a stepping- •* 
stone to greater popular power. 

By degrees, as one man made way for another, Douglass 
pushed through the crowd, which had already extended itself to 
the Rue Richelieu. From the windows of the hotel, great 
masses of people had been remarked walking hastily towards the 
Boulevards ; whilst in the court-yard of the Salon, many people i 
of more respectable appearance were distinguishable. Amongst ^ 
these, the most calm amid the din of words was the elderly 
stranger; he stood with his arms folded, apparently listening 
with much attention, but seldom intruding a word ; frequently, 
when the impassioned speaker would turn to him for a confir- 
mation of his words, the head might be seen to nod an acqui- i 
escence, but the lips never moved : and it was whilst the ladies *’ 
and Stanhope were watching this unusual concourse of people 
that Douglass entered almost breathless. 

“Where is he?'’' asked Amelia, the colour forsaking her •- 
cheek. l 

“ I have not seen, and cannot find him,” was the answer. 

“ And, indeed,” he continued, “ no man, I believe, is to be found , 
now in his house : all Paris is in a tumult ; and although I have | 
endeavoured to glean the cause of this unusual disturbance, I 
own myself unequal to explain it.” 

“ Then run over,” said Amelia, “ to that crowd where the old 
gentleman stands : he can explain it.” 

“ Robert,” said Julia, as he was about to leave the room, ^ 
“ remember your promise never to enter that house again.” 

“You may trust me, Julia ; your eyes will be upon me.” 

“ They never will pry into a husband’s actions : your word ■ 
is a better security than my surveillance.” 

Robert went, and was v, soon recognised by the stranger, to 
whom he at once advanced, offering many thanks for his un- 
heeded advice the previous evening, and regretting the hasty 
expressions he might have used. 

The stranger received him cordially, and inquired after the 
lady who had made the scene, as he worded it : then, without 
waiting for an answer, he remarked, “ You are lucky in one 
respect ; a greater excitement is likely to occur, which will over- 
come even gambling for a time ; for some very serious commo- 
tion will foHow these ill-advised — these undigested ordinances of 
the government.” 

Douglass, willing to give his party every possible informa- 
tion, requested the stranger to accompany him to his hotel ; but 


THE GAMESTER. 


99 


he was stopped in his invitation by an abrupt “ No.” Douglass 
started back a little annoyed at this reception of an intended 
civility, when the stranger continued,— “ I would not meet 
Walsingham in the house of one of his victims : besides, if re- 
port speaks truth, my company would not be very agreeable to 
one of the ladies, who might prefer a man more lavish of his 
praises in regard to an admirer than mine would be. Do you 
understand, young gentleman and out came that sharp elbow 
against the side of Douglass. 

“ He is not there, 1 assure you ; and if I could urge as a per- 
sonal favour what you refuse on the score that your presence 
would be unwelcome, 1 should be much gratified by your ac- 
cordance with my wishes.” 

“ What a precious long-winded set of words !” replied the 
stranger. “ But ho words will do to quiet Walsingham; that 
fellow would go on if the dictionary was paraded against him. — 
Well, I’m agreed, — go on. Remember one thing — I always 
speak my mind. Some time ago, 1 told you, you could better 
play on a fiddlestick than a system : who’s right now ? I called 
you an ass : I don’t think your conduct would make me recall 
my words.” 

He shook the hand of an overgrown Frenchman as he passed, 
giving him an expressive wink as he said, “ Tout va bien^^' 
and followed Douglass to the room door : there his guide turned 
round and expressed his regret that he had in the great excite- 
ment forgotten the stranger’s name.” 

“ I doubt if you ever knew it,” replied the man : “ Walsing- 
ham never talks about me in society, where my name cannot be 
uttered but with a curse. My name is Mr. Testy, and the world 
say I inherit all the wealth of my name.” 

He was introduced, and he bowed gracefully. He had evi- 
dently been used to the highest society, for the polish of those 
manners never rubs off. His keen eye scanned the countenances 
of all ; but it rested upon Amelia’s for a moment, and he said, 
rather abstractedly, “ What a sacrifice 1” Recovering himself, he 
spoke of the ordinances which occasioned this unusual tumult ; 
and, with the quickness of a man accustomed to the manners of 
the people amongst whom he had so long resided, he concluded 
his narrative of facts with these words : — “ If the police falter 
for a moment, the throne is in imminent danger. If the forward 
movement is once given, nothing can retard it. A Frenchman 
at a charge, when the adverse party has shown weakness, is 
overpowering : check him at first, and he will never face his 


100 


WALSINGHAM, 


foe. To-night we shall be better informed ; perhaps some modi- T 
fication maybe offered to soothe these lighting boys; if not, 
seven’s the main, Mr. Douglass, and it’s a chance but the people ' 
back the caster-out. I fancy you understand that, or you have 
paid handsomely for a poor education.” 

Douglass turned away : his face was covered with shame. 
Julia interposed and requested Mr. Testy to join their party at 
dinner, — to which, after some reluctance on his part, he con- - 
seated. Julia was determined at all risks to discover something , 
more about Walsingham ; Amelia’s heart throbbed when she 
heard his name mentioned, and Douglass’s colour flew to his 
face, fearing another eclair cissement. 

Of all the people perfectly indifferent to revolutions, mar- 
riages, domestic infelicity, or perspective happiness, Margaret 
was the queen : she scarcely noticed old Testy, and was quite 
cool amid the din of voices, which would have startled any other 
of her sex ; whilst Stanhope, who had been told that Testy knew ^ 
every body and every thing in Paris, was impatient to draw him i 
into some conversation. 

Julia quickly perceived how careful her husband was to avoid 
any reference to the proceedings of the preceding night, and 
question after question succeeded each other, leaving no gap in 
the conversation through which either Stanhope or Julia could 
cut in and occupy old Testy’s attention. At last that gap did 
occur, and Julia instantly asked if Mr. Testy knew a gentleman 
of the name of Walsingham. 

“ Not so well,” replied Testy in his usual shrewd and keen 
manner, “ as either Mr. Stanhope or Mr. Douglass.” 

“ Then your acquaintance must be slight indeed,” replied 
Stanhope ; “ for, to the best of my knowledge and belief, the 
only person even of his household, or his father’s household, I 
ever spoke to, was the old housekeeper in Cavendish-square.” 

“ A curious coincidence of circumstances, indeed,” said Tes- 
ty almost to himself ; and then continuing his discourse, he 
said, “ For all that, Mr. Stanhope, — or Captain Stanhope, I be- 
lieve, — you know more of him than I do.” 

“ Did you see him last night ?” asked Julia. 

“ Yes : after you went home, he returned and remained until 
a late hour.” 

“ Have you heard of him to-day?” asked Amelia. 

“ No,” replied Testy wdth some warmth ; “ and I could wish 
that any one of your name inquired less about him.” 

The tone and manner with which this was uttered seemed a 


THE GAMESTER. 


101 


damper to any further demands ; but Margaret, who had listen- 
ed with more than usual attention to these short questions and 
answers, turned round, and darting some tender looks at old 
Testy, asked, 

“ Did you ever know a person of the name of Houghton 

Testy appeared a little dismayed at the question, but answer- 
ed, “ I was in the room when he shot himself.” 

“There was another present also, I believe, Mr. Testy.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Good God !” said Julia, “ I begin to fear even my suspi- 
cions are well founded.” 

“ I have not the slightest doubt, madam,” remarked Testy, 
with his habitual sneer, “ that if you have formed any suspi- 
cions, they will not be without reason.” 

“ Hark ! there is the drum.” 

“ Ay,” said Testy ; “ and before to-morrow’s sunset, there 
will be more noise and confusion than any will like but Wal- 
singham.” 

“ It is odd,” said Amelia, who could not control her desire to 
hear more of Walsingham, “ that we have not seen him to- 
day.” 

“ I think,” said Testy, “you will not regret his absence.” 

“ Oh ! I understand,” said the enamoured girl : “ he has been 
all day at his poor father’s. Sir William Walsingham’s, who is 
just arrived in Paris, and is old and ill. How could I be so dull 
as to have forgotten the event ! Perhaps the poor old man is se- 
riously unwell, and Walsingham has been all day in the perform- 
ance of a dutiful pleasure.” 

Testy looked up ; and after watching Amelia in silence for a 
moment or two, he replied, “ He need not be quite so dutiful, as 
I doubt if Sir William will encumber him with much parental 
civility.” 

“ He has told me,” said Amelia, “ that he is not on good 
terms with his father ; but he thought now he could bring about 
a reconciliation.” 

“ He told you more truth. Miss Stanhope, and more falsehood 
in the sentence, than even I gave him credit for. Do not let me 
cause either an angry or a hasty rebuke. I see the drift of the 
conversation — you wish me to give you my knowledge of this 
man ; I shall not gratify the curiosity ; not from any ill nature 
or spleen, but because I never say an ill-natured thing of any 
one. You best know how you first became acquainted with 
him, — to me, in regard to Captain Stanhope, quite inexplicable, 
9 * % 


102 


WALSINGHAM, 


1 therefore cannot say what I would say as advice to you, Miss 
Stanhope, nor can I enter upon a subject so painful to Captain i 
Stanhope.” l 

“Upon my honour, Mr. Testy,” replied the captain, “I 
cannot comprehend you : I have told you I have never seen 
him.” 

“ I can only say, sir,” replied Testy, “ I wish with ail my 
heart none of your family had ever seen him.” 

“ How came he in this house, Douglass ?” asked Stanhope. 

“ He was Robert’s schoolfellow,” replied Julia : “ there is no 
mystery about the man.” 

Testy, who generally kept his eyes on the table, was seen to 
glance a keen look at Douglass as he said, “ I fancy he has been 
his schoolmaster, rather than schoolfellow, and rather exorbitant 
in his demands for the education he has bestowed.” 

There was a painful silence. Julia suspected at once 
the truth ; her husband felt like a false witness under torture of 
severe cross-examination ; Amelia burst into tears and left the 
room, and was followed by Julia and Margaret ; whilst Stan- 
hope, perfectly confounded in the labyrinth of mystery, was 
unable to pursue the conversation further. After a lapse of 
time, however. Stanhope recovered himself, and spoke out 
like the straight-forward man he ever was. “ Mr. Testy,” he 
began, “ excuse me if I say any thing which you might mis- 
apply as regards yourself ; and give me the credit of not wishing 
to say an uncivil word, or to plant an unpleasant feeling in your 
bosom. You have twice distinctly alluded to me as knowing 
too much of this Mr. Walsingham; I have as often told you that 
I really never knew him ; — there was a look of discredit to my 
words.” 

Testy, whose large quick eyes were fixed upon Stanhope, 
nodded his head, saying, “ Go on : I repeat it again, — you 
know him ; and not many days from this, you will acknowledge 
it.” 

“ I am not prone, Mr. Testy, to incivilities ; but surely the 
word of a soldier and an Englishman might be respected.” 

“ Certainly,” said Testy : “ pray go on.” 

“ Well, sir,” said Stanhope, his blood rising in spite of his 
habitual control, for Testy’s countenance was as unchangeable 
as a painted sign over an inn door, “ I repeat it again, — I do not 
know him.” 

“Just as you please. Captain Stanhope, about that; but pray 
go on ; for although 1 am anxious to appease your wrath if I 


THE GAMESTER. 103 

can consistently with my resolution, yet I am equally anxious to 
know if my throat is to be cut going home to-night.” 

There was a smile on Stanhope’s countenance as he con- 
tinued, — “ Well, well, we will say no more about that at this 
time. From the hints you have given, and which hints cannot 
be altogether misunderstood, some suspicion has been excited in 
mind relative to Mr. Walsingham : now I will be plain with 
you, — Mr. Walsingham is engaged to be married to my sister.” 

“ I know it,” interrupted Testy. 

“ I am anxious, of course, to learn the character of my future 
brother-in-law. You know him well; I therefore endeavoured 
to glean from you something which might make me regard him 
with sincere affection; and you in reply say things which are 
evidently so well worded, that they carry with them under their 
smooth surface poison which reaches even the heart of my 
sister. I own I have no right to ask this favour of you ; but I 
do ask it : who is this Walsingham'?” 

“ Upon my honour,” replied Testy with most provoking 
coolness, “ I should be very much disinclined to swear who he 
is : I know what he was.” 

“ Then what in the name of the devil was he ?” asked Stan- 
hope. 

“ Ay, now I think you have named his father ; and if you ask 
with such a knowledge of his parent, you might inquire over 
the way, in the large hell, for his character. I say no more. 
Captain Stanhope ; I shall not tell a lie even to save your sister 
a pang.” 

“Is he not the son of Sir William Walsingham ?” 

“ I really should be very sorry to swear that he was, and 1 
cannot absolutely swear that he is not.” 

“ I see it is of no use,” said Stanhope in despair, “asking 
you any question ; and yet I will try one more. What would 
you do if you had a sister going to marry him ?” 

“ Cut her or his throat,” replied Testy. “ ’Faith, the tumult 
increases in the streets ; I must be off,— -good night.” 


104 


WALSINGHAM, 


CHAPTER X. 


Mr. Testy did not stand long making last speeches or bows ; 
when he said “ good night,” he walked out without any other 
remark, and was soon in the street. Douglass felt himself re- 
lieved from a load he could ill sustain when he departed. 

To Stanhope’s remarks that he was altogether unfathomable, 
he responded, that he believed him to be one of those sullen, 
morose men, whose younger days had been blighted by misfor- 
tune, and whose later years had brought no consolation or com- 
fort : — like all men at war within themselves, he added, who 
cannot see happiness in others but with dissatisfaction, every 
word he uttered was weighed in the balance of malice, estimat- 
ing exactly how much the subject could bear, without overtop- 
ping the scale and ruining the measure.” 

“ He does indeed appear soured by the world ; and yet he 
wears the proud countenance of good humour, and in his ex- 
pressions there was more regard for the welfare of Amelia than 
caution concerning himself. I will go with you to-morrow my- 
self to Mr. Walsingham, for his conduct is curious. I never 
knew the man who was engaged to a woman and who omitted 
to visit her without something very extraordinary interposed.” 

Scarcely had Stanhope concluded his sentence than Walsing- 
ham appeared. He was introduced to Stanhope; the latter 
offered his hand,' which was accepted, and the cold, shivering, 
clammy feel made Stanhope remark that he was sorry to find 
him unwell. 

** I am fatigued, much fatigued,” said Walsingham. “ May I 
inquire after Miss Stanhope ?” 

“ The ladies are in the next room,” said Douglass : “ if you 
are disinclined for claret, we had better follow them.” 

“Although very anxious to see Miss Stanhope, I cannot re- 
fuse one glass of wine, for I feel almost unable to speak. There 
is,” he continued, “ Captain Stanhope, a great likeness between 
your sister and yourself— I could have named you as her bro- 


THE GAMESTER. 


105 


ther in any place. — Now, Douglass, I am ready to follow you — 
and the faster you move, the better it will please an anxious 
lover.” 

The ladies all received him well ; even Julia was glad to see 
him, for it relieved Amelia’s mind, and made her regret that 
Walsingham had not arrived half an hour sooner, and silenced 
the impertinence of that horrible stranger. “ What can have 
fatigued you so ?” asked Amelia. 

“ More than I can well explain,” replied Walsingham. “ I 
have been obliged to relinquish my intended visit to my father, 
on account of the present disturbances, with which I am little 
interested. They are most serious ; indeed, I expect that to- 
morrow will see Paris in a state of absolute revolution ; and I 
came here to-night, stealing a few moments from a most impor- 
tant meeting, in kind regard to Mrs. Douglass and to yourself. 
What I propose is more painful to myself than to any; for who 
can bear to propose a separation from the object of his love?— 
Amelia, my dearest!” he whispered, “do you think you can 
persuade your sister to leave Paris in an hour?” 

“Leave Paris, Mr. Walsingham ! What can this mean — to 
what end do you make this proposition ?” 

“ For her — yours — your brother’s — all your safety : it is no 
secret, and I will tell it aloud. Mrs. Douglass, with your per- 
mission I will close this door and that window, and beg of you 
to listen to me attentively.” Margaret looked up. — “ After a 
duty to Amelia in my present visit, I am anxious about yourself 
and child. You must leave Paris in an hour’s time ; nay, don’t 
start — your welfare is my welfare. I venture to disclose a se- 
cret which would, if discovered, mar a great work. To-morrow 
the streets of Paris will flow with blood — an organised revolu- 
tion, which will withstand even the bayonets of the French 
troops, is arranged ; and when once the frenzy of the French 
nation is let loose, we cannot tell how far murder may advance. 
You have a child — an only child ; the danger is most immi- 
nent ; — before I came here, I got your passports viseed for 
Calais ; here they are : if you are prudent, order your horses 
at once. I tell you that after midnight you could not pass a bar- 
rier; ymu will be hemmed in — there will be no retreat.” 

“Surely, Mr. Walsigham,” said Stanhope, “ the British mi- 
nister is a sufficient protection for the British subject?” 

“ Doubtless,” continued Walsingham, “from an overt act of 
the government; but from a lawless set of demoralised ruf- 
fians, whose hands will reek with the blood of their country- 


106 


WALSINGHAM, 


men, who can protect you ? Men may remain and brave the 
danger, but for women to place themselves in such a position is 
unpardonable. I know not. Miss Stanhope, if my wishes are 
likely much to influence you ; but if you regard me with the 
afiection I regard yourself, you will use your voice in my ar- 
gument, and urge Mrs. Douglass to avail herself of the present 
moment, and escape a danger which it would be criminal in her 
to await. Surely in this proposition you will do me the credit 
to believe that 1 am actuated only by a wish to render you a 
service, and that I impose upon myself the greater punishment 
in thus being separated, if only for a week, from Miss Stanhope. 
Captain Stanhope, may I claim one moment’s conversation with 
you in private ? I will leave Douglass to talk over my ap- 
parently hasty proposition, whilst to you I make a declaration 
more consonant with the best feelings of my heart.” 

So well had Walsingham from long practice schooled himself 
in the art of deception, that the frank and manly Stanhope was 
completely blinded by the apparent openness of his manner : 
he nodded a cheerful assent to Walsingham’s proposition ; and 
in the room where he had dined. Stanhope heard a repetition of 
the vows already made to his sister, and an earnest hope that 
no obstruction would be placed to his marriage. 

Stanhope asked if Sir William’s consent had been obtained ; 
to which question he was answered, that Sir William was so 
fatigued with his journey as to be unable to leave his bed ; but 
that to-morrow, if an opportunity occurred, his father should be 
apprised of the son’s intentions, and a reconciliation established 
through the medium of Amelia : For,” added this Lothario, 
“ who could see her and not covet such an addition to any 
family ?” 

Stanhope, silenced if not satisfied by this avowal and explana- 
tion, turned the conversation to the threatened revolution, with- 
out for a moment pledging himself to support Walsingham’s 
cause : he had some misgivings, from Tesiy’s hints, that his 
future brother-in-law’s character was rather doubtful on some 
points ; and yet his open, candid manner greatly disarmed Stan- 
hope. 

“ I am inclined, very much inclined, to support your propo- 
sition about removing the ladies ; but I own I should myself 
leave Paris with considerable regret. I am scarcely within the 
barrier of the city, before a revolution commences : we sol- 
diers, Mr. Walsingham, are ashamed to fly because a few shots 
may be fired.” 


THE GAMESTER. 


m 


“ A few shots,’’ interrupted Walsingham, “ would not in- 
duce me to make the suggestion I have made ; but you cannot 
but be aware that if once the mob become the assailants, no 
woman will be safe from outrage. It is for your wife’s sake — 
for her personal beauty will soon attract attention, — for Ame- 
lia’s, for Mrs. Douglass’s sake, — that I am so urgent. Remem- 
ber what I tell .you. Captain Stanhope : from the instant the 
first shot is fired and the alarm raised, it is useless to attempt a 
retreat, for the post-office will supply no horses ; and the worthy 
ragamuffins who splutter about liberty, but cannot comprehend 
its meaning, will make free with your carriages, luggage, and 
women. I have no more to say on the subject — I have done 
all that I can do. My servant will remain here to forward your 
wishes ; and I take my leave now, earnestly hoping that to- 
morrow you will have no occasion to regret having neglected 
my advice.” 

Walsingham now returned to his victim and the ladies. In 
vain he gave Douglass hints that he wished to speak to him in 
private : Douglass was for once satisfied with his loss : he 
neither took the hint nor proposed cards, but seemed impatient 
and reserved. In the mean time, the buzz of human voices in- 
creased outside ; ever and anon a rush was distinctly audible ; 
whilst in the calm which occurred between the deep maledic- 
tions of the populace and their vehement cheers, the old revo- 
lutionary songs struck upon the ear. 

“That,” said Walsingham, “is one of the worst signs of 
all. Years have passed since those songs have been publicly 
sung in the street, or rehearsed sotto voce in the salon. I think 
less of the clamour of these nimble-tongued people than the 
music; for once set Frenchmen to sing, and, carried away by 
the enthusiasm which invariably occurs, they rush headlong 
into mischief without the restraint of reason. You see,” he 
continued, “ how the whole mob have joined in the chorus — 
how they scream, rather than sing, ^ Aux armes, citoyens ! 
former VOS hataillons ! Depend upon it, that sudden ebullition 
will not easily be quelled.” 

In vain did Walsingham try every means in his power to ef- 
fect his principal object of withdrawing the whole party from 
Paris : the very noise and confusion was a strong inducement to 
keep the women from hazarding a retreat through such moving 
masses of men; and Walsingham, finding all his efforts vain, 
withdrew himself. As he passed the outer gate, he whispered 
to his servant to remain and watch, and to give him the earliest 


108 


WALSINGHAM, 


intelligence of his friend’s departure. He had not, however, 
advanced two steps before he was run violently against by a 
man, who cried out, “ Starboard a little, shipmate, next time, 
and don’t come stem on in that manner ! I’m blessed if you 
hav’n’t stove in my figure-head and loosened some of my head- 
rails ! — Ah, d all you Parleywous put together ! — a thick- 

headed set of lubbers, who can’t talk English, although we have 
thrashed you enough to make you scholars. — There, tip us your 
flipper ; will you have a glass of grog, old Monseer Jiga- 
maree ?” 

Walsingharn by no means relishing the reception, answered 
in English with a very polite refusal, and was soon lost in the 
mob. ' 

“ I’m blowed,” said the elegant valet in top-boots, “ if that 
voice does not sound worse upon my ear, than ‘ Hands, reef 
topsails,’ of a squally night. I’ll just overhaul him a bit.” But 
Jack’s resolution after his soliloquy came too late : Walsingharn 
was lost in the great stream of human nature which continued 
to flow from the Palais Royal and Place de la Bourse, to empty 
itself, or to diverge in different directions along the Boulevards. 
Indeed, the valet had hard work, as he said, to weather the 
corner of the porte-cochere and get into his anchorage at the 
hotel. 

W'hen he attended his master to explain his occupations, and 
duty done, he was in a high state of excitement; so much so, 
indeed, as to warrant the suspicion that he had been splicing 
the main brace ; for all his master could get out of him was, 
“That’s him, just as sure as grog ahoy at one bell!” Con- 
tinued Jack to himself as he took his master’s boots, “ I know 
his voice as well as the first-lieutenant’s : and as for his walk, 
it’s just as regular as the sentry’s at the cabin-door. By the 
piper ! if ever I range up alongside of him again, I’m mis- 
taken if I don’t bore an eyelet-hole in bis carcass, big enough 
for a reef point to go through!” 

“ What is the matter with you, Jenkins ?” said Stanhope : 
“ are you drunk, or stupid, or both ?” 

“It’s him, just as sure as the purser’s steward will clap his 
thumb in the liquor-measure !” replied Jack. 

“ Who ?” said Stanhope. 

“ Him,” said Jack. “ And if I cruise about until daylight, 
ril find him out ; so while you turn in. I’ll turn out and look 
out.” Upon which he banged the door and was in search of 
the stranger. 


THE GAMESTER. 


109 


Walsingham had reached his own apartments in safety ; and 
after going through his evening practice just as assiduously and 
as cautiously as if he had been employed cheating the unwary, 
he threw himself back on his chair, and commenced a very 
laudable but far from religious abuse of Testy. “ He crosses 
my path every where— at every step I stumble against him. 
What could he have told these fools ? If I had succeeded to- 
night, he might have raved until his tongue had swollen. They 
must leave Paris, or I must : — and that last is not probable,” he 
continued, musing. “ I am so far committed, that I cannot ex- 
tricate myself; and I do not admire the cool, determined man- 
ner of the brother. Besides, Douglass has much more money ; 
and I allow the bird to fly away, not iinplucked, it is true, but 
still with many a golden feather. It is a bad business, but I 
must await events ; so now to complete my great work, which 
will immortalise and enrich me. I will have but one in the 
secret — my bosom friend the Count Von Rosendal.” Here 
Walsingham ceased his murmurings, and having provided him- 
self with pen, ink, and paper, began to mark a piece of ruled 
paper in the following manner : — 


VOL. II. 


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THE GAMESTER. 


Ill 


“I think — Ah, Rosendal, you are come to the moment! 
Here is my new plan ; it must succeed. Now listen, and re- 
member, the first-named thing or being denotes the horizontal 
line in which the answer is to be found; the second, the per- 
pendicular lines. Thus, supposing you want to inform me ‘ not 
to give cards,’ you, after betting a five-franc piece against me, 
would of course look over my opponent’s cards and then turn to 
a person who is known strictly honourable — never mind the 
term, my worthy German ; honour and dishonour are merely 
words, and all we require is honour amongst we need 

not use the general monosyllable. You would, in low accents 
just sufficient to reach my ears whilst I am pondering what to 
do, and my adversary is ‘proposing,’ relate that ‘a beautiful 
child was nearly killed by a man, who drove his cab over it, or 
against it.’ Here you see, my worthy German, that the child 
marks the lower line, and that the man marks tlie fourth per- 
pendicular space ; and there you find, ‘ Do not give cards.’ By 
your silence I should infer that I was to give cards. — Stop ; I 
know what you are going to say, Rosendal, just as well as if 
you uttered it; — you were going to remark, that the eternal talking 
would not do amongst people of our avocation ; it is only fools 
we must find, or innocent old gabies, who play in public rooms — 
there you may chatter. Now, I propose to try this plan upon 
my bosom friend Douglass: he has just got a brother-in-law 
over, who is one of those strict, honourable, upright men, who 
like conversation, and who are so blind as to the dishonesty of 
the world, that they do not believe in pick-pockets, and think a 
new coat cannot conceal a doubtful person. We must learn the 
table by heart, and practice it to-morrow at Madame la Rose’s : 
she has always one or two old fools who weary out life in 
playing for francs. But mind, the paper must be destroyed : 
like free-masons, we must not commit any thing to writing. I 
dare say we have both learned more unprofitable lessons, and 
harder to be remembered, at school. — Now let us practise. 

‘ That is a beautiful emerald, count : I wonder you do not 
give it to your wife I’ ” 

“No trump whatever,” answered the count. 

“ All right, my dear count : you see how easy it is to turn 
words into gold. Again : ‘ My horse has thrown my groom.’ ” 

“ The ace.” 

“ Good, my worthy pupil, good ! — never did man instruct a 
more willing scholar. You know the principle; the effort of 
memory is nothing. — By the way, I have a new mode of turning 


112 


WALSINGHAM, 


the king — easy to do when a man is a little hazy. Here is the > 
king of spades at the bottom ; now it’s at the top : remark 
1 shuffle ten cards over it, and no more. Now cut — sauter le cowjo,™ 
my worthy count. There’s the king of spades in all his royal) 
majesty. I’m quite pleased with my discoveries ! To-morrow ! 
I will get Douglass here at three o'clock ; you will come in ac- 
cidentally, and I will arrange with one or two others to drop in ; i 
and then I’m mistaken if we do not talk of old Jason and the j 
Golden Fleece afterwards. What a great blessing is an inven- 
tive genius — a creative mind! — Come, count, a cigar and^to * 
bed : cold water, clear heads, steady hands, watchful eyes, placid 
countenances, are all as requisite to our success as smooth 
tongues, courteous manners, honied words. To be what we 
wish to be, we must be walking specimens of Lord Chester- 
field’s gentlemen. Curse those fellows shouting their villanous 
revolutionary songs ! they are never going to bed. Take a copy 
of this, count, and after you have said your prayers, repeat it 
over, place it under your pillow, rehearse it to-morrow as your 
morning’s orisons, then destroy it. Good night to you — I’m to 
bed, to dream of riches and a victim.” 

The worthy couple parted, and Walsingham retired to his 
bed, but not to sleep, not to fall into a total oblivion of all the 
world, and to rise refreshed and reinvigorated to go through the 
labours of the coming day, — but to feel all the stings of remorse 
— to startle at every sound which accidentally was occasioned — 
to feel the coward’s palpitating heart — if the furniture cracked, 
to dread the approach of any living object in the dark — to quail 
at the very thought of death — to fear the present and dread the 
future. Then, again, the apprehension that the police might 
trace him, or that some more cowardly cur than himself might 
betray him ; — then in the rear came virtuous resolutions — a 
determination, after he had accumulated more money, of a peaceful 
retirement in some country place, under another name, taken of 
course for a fortune left by a maternal uncle — giving alms with 
a liberal hand, and going down gently into the grave amidst the 
lamentations of the poor and the blessing of the religious. 

Walsingham, in all his disturbed slumbers, never thought 
much of Amelia; he never intended to marry her; and if he 
failed in his worst intentions, he could easily retire to another 
lodging, and wait concealed until the travellers should liave de- 
parted. He wanted but one week’s respite — only one week 
more to reap the golden harvest. He was safe as to Sir William 
Walsingham : that poor old man was fast sinking into the grave, 


THE GAMESTER. 


113 


attended by two doctors assisting nature in her gradual course, 
unable almost to speak, and strictly prohibited from any con- 
versation or any excitement. This our hero had ascertained ; 
all his visions therefore wore a favourable aspect — for he had 
but one intention, which was to win, or rather to cheat the man 
who had received him as a guest, and been deceived in him from 
the advice which was the cloak of his guilt, and which, in all 
cases, when given against public play, was only to give Wal- 
singham a better opportunity of making more in private. 


CHAPTER XL 


Tuesday morning, the 27th of July, was heralded in by songs 
from the populace ; whilst several of the deputies, who had met 
overnight, watched with impatience for that dawn which was to 
muster the many together. Great indeed had been the dismay 
of those legislators, who saw by their unwarrantable act the 
confusion which must necessarily follow : the storm had been 
created, and who was to still it ? 

The French, ever zealous to maintain their rights, seemed all 
to have taken but one view of these melancholy instances of 
royal weakness. The laws had received their deathblow 
from the hand which had confirmed them; and that nation so 
long the fear of the greater part of Europe was not likely tamely 
to submit to a violation of its rights and privileges. 

Throughout the whole of Paris, boys might be heard scream- 
ing in defiance of the soldiers, or the warning voice of the po- 
lice, “ Aux armes ! aux armesT^ whilst those grown to man- 
hood thundered back the words and applauded the sentiment. 
Still no hostile act was committed. Groups of the people 
assembled ; and there might be seen the expressive glance of 
tlie eye, the firm tread of the foot, the compressed motion of 
the lip, which generally accompany a resolution of acting ; — 
then the hurried communication to which all listened — the fierce 
gesticulations which all practised. 

In the mean time, as the day grew more distinct, the crowds 
more considerably increased. The manufactories, the printing 

10 ^ 


114 


WALSINGHAM, 


offices, and many of ihe principal shops in the great thorough- 
fares, kept their windows closed, and refused to admit their 
usual workpeople : these contributed to swell the numbers of 
the diffierent groups who had taken up positions in the public 
places and principal squares, and where the principal orators 
were tending to inflame the public mind by exchanging mutual 
sentiments, all tending to blazon forth the grievances and com- 
mon wrongs to which they had been subjected, and, after 
breathing defiance to all authority which should attempt to up- 
hold such abrogation of the law, were persuading their attentive 
listeners to swear rather to die than allow the chains to be 
riveted which tyranny had prepared; whilst others, elevated 
on chairs, read aloud to the already exasperated multitude the 
protest of the editors of the liberal newspapers. This last docu- 
ment was vehemently applauded, and Paris was in a state of 
insubordination bordering on absolute revolution. 

Mrs. Douglass, when she awoke from a troubled sleep, heard 
the wild hurrahs of the wilder mob, and, looking from her win- 
dow, saw the crowds rushing towards the Boulevards. She 
was quite aware that all the usual business of the lower classes 
was finished, if ever begun, for that day, and that it would be 
quite in vain to attempt to move. As the noise increased, fear 
communicated itself to all in the house ; the affrighted females 
ran from room to room, and both Douglass and Stanhope 
appealed to their reason and their courage in vain. All were 
now clamorous to depart but Amelia : no sudden shout startled 
her into apprehension ; the greater the danger, the more she 
desired to share it; and at last she boldly declared that she 
would not leave Paris without VValsingham left it also. It was 
quite plain that she was desperately in love ; and, like all young 
ladies with a romantic turn of mind, she was resolved to share 
every hazard with her lover, and not to leave this scene of dan- 
ger without he was in security. 

At breakfast little was demolished but words : all the women 
spoke at once; and out of five persons they had but one lis- 
tener, and that a very indifferent one : for whenever Walsing- 
ham’s name was mentioned, Amelia at once began to defend his 
character, or to point out that he had recommended the course, 
when security was certain, which now every one \vas anxious 
to adopt but herself; that throughout he had been the friend of 
the family, and deserved a belter fate than being suspected by 
one, and depreciated by the other. 

When the din of words had a little subsided, reason came 


THE GAMESTER. 


115 


into play. Some time must necessarily elapse before the car- 
riages could be packed, but it was resolved that packed they 
should be, and the horses ordered by five o’clock in the even- 
ing ; thus giving ample time to clear all the barriers before 
dark, and leave the travellers on the high road to Calais. No 
one was more clamorous for this line of conduct than Mrs. 
Douglass : she had in the morning believed it unsafe to move, 
but seeing that the mob did little besides, abuse the king and his 
ministers, people little spared in such commotions, — that no 
one appeared armed, although all shouted “ Jiux armes /” and 
that occasionally a carriage passed without interruption, or that 
gendarmes walked without molestation, she gladly availed her- 
self of apparent neutrality between both parties to withdraw her 
husband from Paris, in which she foresaw that he might, by 
every little subterfuge, continue his gaming propensities. Nor 
did she feel any apprehensions for her child : men seldom be- 
come so infuriated as to wreak their vengeance upon infants. 

This being determined, it was requisite to apprise Walsing- 
ham of their intentions ; for they could not carry away Amelia 
without giving notice to her lover, and soliciting his advice. It 
was resolved that Douglass should instantly call and invite him 
to be present and take his farewell of Amelia — that lady having 
commenced a series of sighs, which, after passing through the 
several stages, arrives ultimately at hysterics. 

On Douglass’s arriving at Walsingham’s, he was alarmed at 
finding him apparently very unwell and in bed. He delivered his 
message ; and although Walsingham expressed the greatest grief 
and the most earnest desire to pay his last visit, yet the pain 
was so intense that he despaired of success. 

“ What can be the matter with you, Walsingham 1” Douglass 
began. “ You left us in good — in excellent health last night ; 
and to-day I find you unable to rise to see her who is to be 
your wife, when she may be absent for months to come.” 

“I am very, very ill,” replied the hypocrite: “a kind of 
shivering attacked me last evening — in the night I became 
feverish, and now I experience so great a lassitude that I am 
almost unable to converse. You are right to leave Paris, my 
dear Douglass ; a little estrangement from that sink of iniquity, 
the Salon, will be of great service to you : when you are away 
from the neighbourhood of that pandemonium, you will learn 
to exist without its excitement, llow very faint I feel !” 

Douglass immediately offered some water which stood near 
the bed; and on Walsingham’s reclining on his pillow and clos- 


116 


WALSINGHAM, 


ing his eyes as if overcome by exhaustion, he rose to depart ; 
but the sick man beckoned him to be seated, and after one or 
two gaspings for breath, he continued, “I am better now ; Dou- 
glass, give me your hand — you must be careful not to mention 
my sudden indisposition to Amelia. You must say that on 
your calling you found I had gone to my father’s, who is ill — \ 
very ill indeed ; that 1 was expected home at three o’clock, at 
which time, my dear fellow, perhaps you will call again. I 
dare say I shall then be able to mention my wish and inten- 
tions better than at present. You will call about that time, 
Douglass ?” 

“ Certainly, Walsingham, I will be punctual. In the mean 
time, I recommend you to get some sleep. Stanhope will be 
anxious to see you, and I can bring him with me.” 

“No, Douglass, do not bring him. I shall, I dare say, be 
able at that time to get to your house : however, at that hour 
we can see. If I am sufficiently strong to stand without giddi- 
ness, Amelia shall not leave Paris without my seeing her and 
arranging a speedy meeting. — Do not let me detain you longer 
now ; you are wanted at home, and I feel disposed to sleep.” 

Douglass shook him by the hand ; and then, walking silently 
and cautiously, he closed the door and returned home. No 
s'boner was he clear of the room than Walsingham jumped up 
perfectly well and in high spirits ; he despatched his servant, 
whose cautious vigilance had given him the first intimation of 
the probable departure of the Douglasses, to his companion in 
iniquity, Rosendal, urging him to be punctual, and explaining 
his manner of proceeding. He then learnt his lesson most 
carefully by heart; and after satisfying himself of his being 
perfect, he sat down in his arm-chair, practised all his arts of 
legerdemain, then took a dice-box, known under the name of a 
doctor, and amused himself dropping the dice carefully in, by 
which method any number may be thrown ; so that no game is 
more dangerous to play than backgammon or hazard, and the 
unwary more sure of being plundered than at any game in which 
dice are used. His manual exercise finished, he began to cal- 
culate his gains ; for he was now a man of fortune, — his debts 
all paid, his credit high, and still more in perspective, although 
his victim was about to leave Paris. J 

Time ever flies quickly when the mind is employed. The 
large cathedral clock which stood on his mantel-piece struck 
half-past two ; he then concealed all the implements of his art, 
placed a Bible and another religious book by his side, and lay 


THE GAMESTER. 


117 


down on his bed, having first dressed himself. His counte- 
nance, at the best of times haggard, looked sufficiently pallid to 
deceive a person of more observation than Douglass, — and Wal- 
singham anxiously awaited his arrival. His plan was well laid, 
and he thought the unfortunate man sure of being entangled in 
the mesh so artfully spread to ensnare him. The count was 
the first in the field ; he was a quarter of an hour before his 
time. -Gamesters are mostly so ; they never let an opportunity 
slip — they are ever watchful ; and Cerberus below is not more 
vigilant or careful as to whom he lets pass into the Devil’s 
dominions, than are these vagabonds, who, not having the cou- 
rage of highway-robbers, loiter in corners watching in reality 
whom they may devour. 

The new plan by which Douglass was to be robbed was 
practised and found to answer uncommonly well. Both parties 
had good memories ; and when memory is directed to only one 
object, it soon retains its lesson. By three olclock Douglass and 
Stanhope both arrived. The latter was far from being capti- 
vated with the appearance of Walsingharn : there seemed under 
the outward show of honour some lurking mischief — there w^as 
a restless w'atchfulness, an uneasiness, whenever the eyes met; 
and whilst Walsingharn appeared thoughtful as to an answer 
expected from him, and kept his head towards the ground, there 
was a careful vigilance which always watched his companion. 
Stanhope, accustomed to command men, had noticed this as a 
sure sign of low cunning or consummate cowardice ; he regarded 
all Walsingham’s words as mere tinsel to cover greater defects, 
and was one of the many instances of common sense being 
much more valuable than flimsy ability. Before he visited Wal- 
singham, he had called at the house of Sir William : he was de- 
nied admittance — the old man was very ill and quite unable to 
receive any visiters; the servant said that Sir William’s son was 
expected, but that as yet he belie’^ed he had not arrived in Paris ; 
— and, unsatisfactory as this was, it was all he could glean. At 
once Stanhope determined that there was a mystery about Wal- 
singham ; and he resolved upon fathoming ii before he allowed 
the marriage to be proceeded upon. 

Walsingharn received him with the air and manner of a gen- 
tleman ; nor was Stanhope less courteous. The invalid com- 
plained much of pain, but mentioned his being rather faint from 
the operation of the toilet, and that he was reclining to overcome 
the fatigue. The count most pathetically inquired after his 
friend’s health, and was evidently so well tutored that he was 


118 


WALSINGHAM, 


not likely to leave the room. The conversation was chiefly led 
by the count, who talked in fearful strains of the approaching 
crisis : he wondered how any foreigners could remain in Paris 
when death would be busy and very indiscriminate, and regret- 
ted for Walsingham that his severe indisposition would leave 
him partially at the mercy of the mob. 

When this run of words was concluded. Stanhope, who had 
impatiently waited for a comma in the count’s volubility, spoke 
to Walsingham — mentioned his having called at his father’s, and 
of the ignorance of the servant as to his being in Paris, which 
ill accorded with the conversation of yesterday. Walsingham, 
accustomed to such surprises, answered coolly, and it was 
doubtless the desire of the medical attendant that his father 
should not be agitated at all ; and consequently he had been de- 
nied admittance, and his father not apprised of his visit. 

“ It is useless our conversation now upon a very particular 
point,” Continued Stanhope : “ we leave Paris to-night. You 
will find me at Dover should any serious riots occur in France ; 
there I expect your love will lead you, and there we can make 
all arrangements. Amelia was anxious to see you.” 

“ And if I can movcj I will yet see her,” interrupted the hy- 
pocrite. 

“Move, mon cher interrupted the count. “If you do, 
you had better be measured for your coffin before you start.” 

Douglass, who really believed Walsingham in every point 
strictly honourable, implored him not to risk his valuable life, 
and persuaded Stanhope to leave Walsingham to the repose he 
required. The count was the only one who seemed astonished 
at the hasty departure ; but a quiet glance from the sick man 
made him understand that all the night’s labour in refreshing 
memory was for one day useless. Stanhope shook him warmly 
by the hand, for he was not quick to condemn ; and such is the 
strange composition of man, that even Douglass wished him a 
speedy recovery, and another and better prospect than a sick 
bed. 

They parted ; the count watched them from the windows of 
the entresol ; and no sooner was the coast declared clear, than 
Walsingham was ready to have ridden thirty miles in a contrary 
direction. It was requisite before he ventured in public to ascer- 
tain their departure ; and at five o’clock the gratifying news was 
announced that the whole covey, as Walsingham named them, 
had flown. 

Previous to this, the riots began to assume a more serious 


THE GAMESTER. 


119 


aspect. In the gardens of the Tuileries, men were to be seen 
on chairs, reading aloud and commenting upon the Ordonnances ; 
whilst the listeners, easily excited, roared out against their 
rulers who thus sought to enslave them. It is reported that one 
who thus occupied a chair as a rostrum was interrupted by the 
police and told to desist, as he was sowing discord amongst the 
people. “ I only,” replied the witty Frenchman, “ blow the 
trumpet : if you dislike the notes, you must find fault with the 
composer.” A shout of applause followed this display of wit ; 
and the police was hustled away, and told to seize upon the au- 
thors of the sedition, and not those who merely read the words 
of a government act. The dense crowd which thronged the 
Palais Royal rendered all approach to that quarter impractica- 
ble ; and in this kingdom within a kingdom, the belter class of 
tradespeople pushed forward to spout out their abhorrence of the 
acts. 

Although in the gardens of the Tuileries, the Place Vendome, 
and the Palais Royal, great crowds had assembled, and many 
spoke out freely, yet there was no demonstration of any armed 
opposition to the decree of the government. But very different 
was the scene at the different barriers : here, in the low cabarets, 
the lowest orders congregated; but at each place there were one 
or two people who inflamed the mob, already half intoxicated. 
“ The only way,” continued one of these promoters of discord, 
“ is to erect a barricade through which no soul in Paris shall 
pass : every one shall be bound to the common cause, and those, 
you know, who are not for us are against us, and we will soon 
take a proper vengeance upon them. “A barricade — a barri- 
cade i” was shouted with as much perseverance as the cry of 
“ Aux armesr had been ; the stones which formed the pave- 
ment were instantly loosened and thrown up in heaps, and the 
road rendered impassable ; every man as he worked joined in 
the chorus of the Marseillaise Hymn ; and the soldiery who 
were stationed at the guard houses being too few to interrupt the 
proceedings, were content with watching them : and thus, in a 
very few minutes, some carts had been seized — some omnibuses 
and fiacres upset — the road perfectly destroyed, and a very effec- 
tual barrier placed upon this outlet. By four o’clock the riots 
became more serious ; the military and the gendarmerie cleared 
by force the Palais Royal and shut the gates ; but it was merely 
driving the mob from one place to another ; they all kept to- 
gether, and if they retired, it was to condense themselves more 
closely. They were still unarmed; and they busily thought of 


120 


WALSINGHAM, 


the best manner of providing themselves with those requisites 
without which all opposition w^ould be fruitless. All passage 
through the lower part of the Rue St. Honore and the Rue Ri- 
chelieu was completely impeded by the immense mass of peo- 
ple, who could not have opened a sufficient space to allow a ve- 
hicle to pass. By degrees the numbers increased : and the 
military also appeared in stronger force ; and although they 
clamoured for the people to disperse, and exhibited their swords 
in a menacing position, they were disregarded and hooted. This 
led to the first charge of cavalry upon the unarmed mob ; and 
by four o’clock in the afternoon, the mob had become so far or- 
ganised as to resist the frequent charges. 

It was now an open fight ; before six o’clock a fusillade had 
commenced on the side of the soldiery ; and owing to the im- 
mense crowds which formed at the lower end of the Rue des 
Rons Enfans and the Palais Royal, many lives were sacrificed 
without a prospect of successful opposition. So desultory was 
the firing, and so incautious the soldiers, who have since de- 
clared that they endeavoured merely to scare the mob by firing 
over them, that two women who were busied about their domes- 
tic aflfairs were shot in their own houses. 

The first death was the signal for a general opposition ; — 
reconciliation had been tried in vain — barricades were thrown 
up in all the principal streets, and Paris had revolted. 


THE GAMESTER. 


121 


CHAPTER XII. 


The noise and tu mull had greatly increased. Douglass and 
Stanhope, mutually fearful of the event, began to hasten their 
departure ; but they waited in vain for the post-horses. Douglass 
had been sufficiently long in Paris to know how very easily 
even French postilions may be excited, either by punch or 
a revolution, and therefore, without further delay, he put the 
horses he had hired to his carriage ; and Stanhope meeting a 
pair of fiacre animals, released from their everlasting load by the 
kindness of the barricade builders, enticed the drivers by a heavy 
reward, and soon found his vehicle slowly ascending the Boule- 
vards, following close behind that of his brother-in-law, and 
making their way through the different groups, who seeing the 
carriage advance, allowed it to proceed without interruption. 

Even Amelia’s love was quieted by the excitement before her 
eyes. As they approached the Porte St. Denis, the mob be- 
came a little more savage in appearance, and some words reach- 
ed the ears of Douglass neither gentle nor genteel in their im- 
port. At last, after walking the horses the whole way, they 
turned towards the arch of St. Denis, and drove through it: but 
here was an end to all their hopes — the road was, as before 
stated, perfectly impassable, and all hopes of escape frustrated. 

“ We must return instantly,” said Douglass, “and get housed 
before it gets worse.” The order was given, but not obeyed.^ 
The mob, anxious to render their barricade more secure, seized 
the horses and unharnassed them, but not without a violent re- 
sistance on the part of the sailor valet, who, swearing he would 
fight as many Frenchmen as could stand between Paris and 
Dover, flew upon the foremost man and knocked him down. A 
violent scuffle ensued, which ended in the perfect discomfiture 
of poor Jack, who, when he was sufficiently recovered from the 
kicks and cuffs he had received after being floored, found his 
master’s carriage hemmed in by paving-stones, a fixture ; whilst 
the ladies, shrieking with fear and apprehension of every dan- 

VOL. II. 11 


122 


WALSINGHAM, 


ger, clung to the arms of their liusbands, and endeavoured to 
force them to a quicker pace to gain some security. They were 
ultimately lodged in the Grand Turc, a small house more used 
as a coffee-house to the Jardin Turc than an inn ; whilst Jack, 
seeing that no attempt was made to seize the carriage as a 
prize, and that the cargo remained untouched, took up a posi- 
tion on the roof, resolved not to leave the wreck until it went 
to pieces. Stanhope waved, and Douglass roared to him ; — it 
was quite useless ; he had been educated as a seaman, and he 
was resolved to save the cargo or go to pieces with the hull. 
He clambered on the roof, and did nothing but whistle “ Come, 
cheer up my lads, ’tis to glory we steer,” and clap his knuckles 
to his tongue, in order to make a blow sharper. The more the 
mob increased, the more he cheered ; and the Frenchmen who 
had witnessed his defence of his master’s property took a liking 
to him. There he sat growling and grumbling, a youth not 
more than seventeen, hurling defiance at a mob, and taunting 
them with all the bad French he could muster. 

Such was the state of affairs at six o’clock ; Paris was then ^ 
in open revolt. All overtures made by the leading men of the 
popular party, in order to avoid the copious flow of blood which 
would eventually follow, were thwarted by the Duke of Ragusa, 
who having been invested with the chief command of Paris, 
with strict orders how to act, felt himself, however disinclined, 
obliged to urge the war he appeared to deprecate ; for when 
Monsieur Lafitte represented in glowing language the deplorable 
state of the capital — that blood was flowing in all directions, — 
that musketry reverberated at every corner, — that Paris was in 
a state of revolution, and that the deputies held the Duke of 
Ragusa as responsible for the fatal consequences likely to occur, 
— the marshal coolly replied, “ Military honour is obedience.” 
Upon which Lafitte answered, “ And civil honour is not to mas- 
sacre the citizens.” 

“ What conditions, sir,” continued the marshal, “ do you pro- 
pose ?” 

“ The repeal of the illegal Ordonnances of July 27, the dis- 
missal of ministers, and the convocation of the Chambers on the 
23d of August.” 

The marshal here remarked that a citizen might join without 
dishonour in these propositions, but that as a soldier he had re- 
ceived his orders and should obey them. But,” he added, “ the 
Prince de Polignac is near at hand— I will go and ask him my- 
self.” 


THE GAMESTER. 


123 


III a quarter of an hour the duke returned : “ Gentlemen,” 
he said, “the prince considers that the nature of the conditions 
proposed renders a conference useless.” 

“ There is then a civil war,” said Lafitte. 

The marshal bowed ; the conference was over — the chance 
of reconciliation lost. . , 

Towards seven o’clock the scene in the Palais Royal became, 
if possible, more animated. A regiment of the line was march- 
ed into the Rue St. Honore, towards the Place du Palais Royal, 
for the purpose of dispensing the people, who, far from viewing 
this hostile array with alarm, greeted the soldiers with acclama- 
tions of joy. The officers instantly perceived the effect this 
had on their men, doubted much if they were sufficiently de- 
termined to obey the orders likely to be given. General de 
Walsh viewed it in the same manner; and gave directions for 
this, the 5th regiment, to retire and make way for the Garde 
Royale. 

The fifth regiment accordingly withdrew ; and the Garde 
Royale advanced, followed by a division of Lancers, the trum- 
pets of which regiment sounded a charge. The notes were fa- 
miliar to all ; the crowd saw their own countrymen advancing 
— their impatient steeds clattering along the street — their lances 
glittering as the horsemen couched them. As the Garde Roy- 
ale came forward a few paces in advance, the cry of the women 
resounded; whilst the tiny voice of the infant as it was nearly 
crushed by the moving mass of men, fearful of being trampled 
upon, was heard above the advancing din. In vain was all at- 
tempt at a retreat ; the mass was condensed — those farther off 
were struggling to get nearer — those nearest eager to escape. 
The fatal order was given, — the soldier obeyed the word which 
had often, under their great general, led them to conquest ; — the 
charge was heard — the infantry poured in their fire upon the 
people, and the Lancers dashed forward and murdered the help- 
less. 

To offer resistance was useless— the bravest could not have 
acted; and the undisciplined mob, after a fruitless shower of 
stones, which only tended to infuriate and could not materially 
injure the soldier, rushed pell-mell along the Rue St. Honore ; 
whilst the groans of the wounded and the dying — the curses 
and heavy maledictions of those who could hnd shelter — the 
cries of the flying, and the shrieks of the women, followed the 
soldiers as they, observing the confusion of their enemies, pur- 
sued their bloody route, cutting down those within reach of 


124 


WALSINGHAM, 


their swords, or piercing those who crouched down to avoid the 
untimely end. Not one poor wretch, who, perhaps led by cu- 
riosity to the scene, and who, seeing the forthcoming storm, in- 
effectually endeavoured to avoid it, escaped. The Lancers’ 
wanton ferocity was untameable ; they dug their pikes through 
the cringing carcass, and spurred their horses over the mangled 
bodies. Those who still lingered in life, as these unfeeling 
wretches retired, were spared the pain of reviving nature ; the 
Gendarmes and the Royal Guard gave the coup de grace to 
their sufferings, and the gutters of the Rue St. Honore over- 
flowed with the blood of Parisians. 

Short was this triumph. The people, availing themselves of 
the narrow streets and turnings, escaped in great numbers, and, 
as their enemies retired, again formed in the Place du Palais 
Royal. In their way they had provided themselves with arms ; 
and boldly they stood when the Royal Guard again returned to 
their posts. There was no longer the military order to fire ; 
the Guard, astonished at the collected mass, again opened a 
heavy and destructive fire : it was returned by a shower of 
stones, tiles, sticks, and, lastly, by fire-arms. But what availed 
this useless demonstration of bravery ? — the steady discipline of 
the Guard soon overcame every effort of the mob ; as each 
charge succeeded the last, the crowd grew less and less dense ; 
one shout, one cheer, one further advance took place; the mob, 
cut into in all directions, only added to the slaughter by the 
impatient haste to escape ; the bayonets could not err, so crowd- 
ed was the retreating mass ; and once again the Royal Guard, 
overcome with the pastime of slaughter, drew breath in momen- 
tary security, the mob having after almost superhuman bravery 
withdrawn, whilst reiterated volleys were with savage pleasure 
poured into the flying masses. 

The blood of both parties was now properly heated to insure 
a continuance of slaughter: to animate the citizens, words were 
plentiful, rewards liberally offered ; but none had the effect equal 
to the method pursued by a baker’s workman, who, seizing the 
mutilated carcass of a woman, of which many were plentifully 
spread upon the street, carried it on his shoulders, shouting to 
all to bear witness how savagely their countrymen had murder- 
ed their citizens. Unsubdued by the weight, he carried the 
corpse to the foot of the statue of Louis XIV. in the Place des 
Victoires : he then addressed the crowd in strong and energetic 
language ; he pointed to their murdered countrywoman ; and, 
after expatiating on the horrid cruelty which had already cover- 


THE GAMESTER. 


125 


ed one of the streets with the dead, he pointed to the corpse, 
and in a deep stern voice added, “ Vengeance ! vengeance ! ven- 
geance !” The crowd caught the tone, and re-echoed the desire ; 
the word “Vengeance!” was heard above all noises; and a 
rush was made by some to stain their handkerchiefs in the blood, 
that they might wave it as a banner to cheer forward the brave 
bands now uniting in the great struggle. 

No sooner did the speaker perceive that his willing listeners 
were wound up to desperation, than he again seized the corpse 
and carried it to the military post at the Bank ; he laid it down 
before the soldiers ; and as they with eager curiosity pressed 
forward to know the import of this unusual visit, a finger was 
pointed to the mangled body, and these words were addressed 
to them : “ Look ! see how your comrades treat our wives and 
sisters ! — Will you — can you, as men, imitate so bad an exam- 
ple ?” The soldiers shrunk back ashamed; the mob grew 
more violent ; whilst curses were heard from both parties, ac- 
cusing the government of all the disasters which were come 
upon them. 

The long day of July at last began to grow to a close, and 
Paris was, in spite of the disorders, in some order. The lamps 
were lit, but these were soon extinguished ; a gang of about one 
hundred issued from the Porte St. Denis, and, in the midst of 
graver scenes, betook themselves to the employment of break- 
ing every lamp and every window from which a light issued; 
and this amusement they^pursued down the whole of the Boule- 
vards, the Rue Montmartre, and the Rue St. Honore, leaving 
those great streets and their outlets in perfect darkness. They 
then returned to their various cabarets, and heated their already 
warm imaginations with deep potations of wine. 

Thus closed the evening of the 27th ; whilst the night was 
spent, not in sleep or in repose, but in activity to prepare for 
the morrow. Each man had become associated with a certain 
number who occupied a specified position, and here each had 
bound himself to repair at dawn of day, and to try how far 
dauntless enthusiasm and deep sense of injury could sustain 
them against disciplined battalions, supported by cannon and 
cavalry, commanded by generals of distinguished courage and 
experience. One only determination prevailed,— to stand their 
ground in the maintenance of their rights and liberties, or to 
perish on the spot selected for the scene of strife. 

At the Cafe Turc a scene of unusual excitement prevailed. 
The ladies found themselves prisoners and unable to depart. 

11 * 


126 


WALSINGHAM. 


Twice had Stanhope, in spite of the earnest, and what might be 
reckoned more astonishing, active efforts of his wife, been to the 
Porte St. Denis. He found himself by no means impeded, and 
in no manner insulted. The crowds still continued dense ; but 
he walked through without interruption, and soon gained the 
barricade. Here he found that many other carriages had been 
taken to form this impediment to the actions of the cavalry ; and 
after numerous unsuccessful efforts, he gained his own vehicle, 
on the summit of which was perched Jack, keeping, as he said, 
a bright look-out upon the squadron. He reported that every 
thing was safe — that he had received more than his allowance of 
provisions and wine from the purser’s steward in the house — 
and that no attempt had been made to take command of the ship, 
but that every thing was conducted in the most officer-like man- 
ner ; but that every cart was capsized which came near the an- 
chorage, and that every carriage was forced to join the squadron. 

“ If that is the case, John,” said Stanhope, “ you had better 
come home with me, and you can return again afterwards. I 
want you to see where we live, so that in the event of your hav- 
ing any thing to report, you may know our residence. Have 
you been on the carriage all this while?” 

“ Not quite, sir,” replied John, “ I saw a bit of a spree ; all 
hands took to dowsing the glims, so I just lent a hand to obey 
the master-at-arms’ order, and kicked a hole in one or two of 
the French purser’s lanterns. They are a rum set of people, 
sure/y.” 

“ Why so, John?” said Stanhope, as they elbowed their way 
through the crowd, which now had become much thinner^ and 
who seemed to understand Jack as he called out “ Scaldings !” 

“ Why, sir, you see, I was at the masthead looking out, when 
up steps the very chap I knocked down. He had got a bottle 
under his arm, and a roll of baccy in his hand. Well, as I had 
knocked him down once, I thought the least I could do was to 
help him up now ; so I lands him all safe in the crow’s nest ; 
and says I, ‘ What cheer, mate?’ 

“ ‘ Ah, ah, om,’ said he. 

“ ‘All right,’ said I; for, do you see, sir, I understood his 
lingo well. He meant by the ‘ ah, ah,’ that he had got the stuff; 
atid the om, he meant, for both of us, in course.’ 

“ ‘ Woulez-wous ?’ says he. 

“ ‘ Well,’ says I to myself, ‘ he means that bottle for some 
outside lining, and he calls it wool — so here goes ;’ and says I, 


THE GAMESTER. 127 

‘ Will I ? — ah, to be sure I will so I lakes the bottle, and says 
I, ‘ Here goes for a fillip to loosen my throat.’ 

“ ‘ Ah, ah,’ said the chap, ‘ Louis-Philippe, hon, honV and 
he gets upon the roof of the carriage and makes a hullabaloo; 
upon which all hands tipple away for the fillip, and they gives 
three cheers for the honour of the cause. — The sooner I get 
back to keep a good look-out the better; for although these gen- 
tlemen seem honourable enough at present, yet they may turn 
round and try the handicraft system, and walk off with the lug- 
gage. I hope missus ain’t frightened, sir ?” 

“ No,” said Stanhope ; “ she continues pretty indifferent to 
the scene ; but she complains that the noise makes her head 
ache.” 

“I’m blessed, sir, if there won’t be something more ache than 
heads, if this goes on.” 

By this time they had elbowed their way to the Cafe Turc, 
the garden of which was crowded by the citizens, who formed 
small groups where a table was not convenient, or disengaged, 
and forthwith began to speak of their complaints against the go- 
vernment. There was no steady, prudent man to check the 
current of the discourse; every one was animated by a strong 
desire to do some deed which should render his name notorious 
amongst the citizens. No one talked of peace, or of reconcilia- 
tion — all burned for war and revenge. Many of the people 
there assembled had seen the mutilated bodies of their compa- 
nions kicked with savage indignity into the gutters, the waters 
in which were tinged with the blood : these men, some furious 
from wounds received, shouted their sentiments with Gallic ra- 
pidity ; whilst the young and the ardent caught the enthusiasm 
of those older than themselves, and, raising their shrill voices, 
as they lifted the glass brimming with vin ordinaire, shrieked 
out, “ Vive la republique ! — aux armes 1 aux armes P' 

At one corner, and mounted on a rickety table which but 
barely supported the tottering orator, stood an old man, his hair 
silvered with age and long service. This veteran had fought 
under Napoleon, and was one of those fortunate men who with- 
stood the biting colds of the north, and made one of the misera- 
ble remnants of that grand army. He had not escaped the 
Russians unscarred, and was now, with his left arm bare, and 
showing the scars of former services, inviting his listeners to be 
prepared for the morrow. “ Comrades,” he said, “ the hour is 
at hand when we must either present our necks to the guillo- 
tine, or show our bosoms to our foes. To tamely submit to be 


128 


WALSINGHAM, 


crushed by a tyrant is cowardice — boldly to stand forward for 
our rights and liberties is noble. We, who have fought under 
the great emperor, know how little to value the fire of soldiers 
in a close town : here their cavalry cannot act, if we are prompt 
and cut down those useless trees which line the Boulevards, 
and under which some one or two of the Parisian idlers may 
gossip over a newspaper, or sit for half a sous under their shade, 
Down with them, my comrades, lay them across the road — pull 
up the pavement, and thus make a barricade over which no 
horse can leap, no cannon be drawn ; then in vain may the sol- 
diers advance with fixed bayonets ; behind this barrier we will 
destroy those who obey the orders of a tyrant and a bigot. To 
work, my comrades !— this arm is yet strong enough to wield 
an axe, — to work, and let us show our enemies that the soldiers 
of Napoleon know how to defend a city, as well as to charge a 
battalion.” Three cheers followed the conclusion of the old 
orator’s harangue, and the trees were shortly felled. 


THE GAMESTER. 


129 


CHAPTER XIIL 


Both Mrs. Douglass and Mrs. Stanhope began to be seriously 
alarmed; but Amelia delighted in the riot: as long as the tu- 
mult continued, so long, she well knew, she must remain in 
Paris. The absence of Walsingham alone caused her pain ; 
for she, with the frankness of character and innocence of mind 
which throughout her life had been manifested, candidly admit- 
ted how sincerely, how affectionately she loved the man who 
had declared a mutual attachment, and oftentimes pressed her 
brother and Douglass to repair to his house and inform him of 
their situation. To this Stanhope objected, for he had great 
misgivings about Walsingham ; and Douglass was unable to 
comply with his favourite’s request, for his wife objected to 
being left one moment. Jack, the valet, would have faced the 
Garde Royale to have complied with Amelia’s wishes; but he, 
in the first place, was ignorant of the street, and secondly, was 
wanted to guard the carriage. The post was of no use ; the 
letters, of course, could not be delivered in a city which was 
^declared in a state of siege, and in which a civil war raged in 
' all its unnatural fury. 

Well was the appeal of the old man answered. Boys of 
twelve years of age joined with those of riper years in the 
work of destruction — the trees which tended so much to im- 
prove the appearance of the Boulevards were soon felled ; the 
pavement was taken up ; whilst omnibuses, fiacres, carriages, 
carts, and wheel-barrows were placed under the protection of 
the trees, the intervals being filled up with paving-stones. The 
whole of Paris was in an excitement without parallel, and it 
was evident that the morning would produce a dissipation of 
the thunder-cloud which hung like a funeral pall over the city. 

In the mean time, W'alsingham was in raptures at the news 
of the actual departure of the Stanhopes and of the Douglasses; 
he had foreseen that his day of triumph was drawing to a close, 
and that his victim, sickened by his last loss at the Salon, would 
have relinquished play for ever, or only have dabbled in so 


130 


WALSINGHAM, 


paltry a manner as would ill repay a gamester for the time he 
sacrificed. Again, the unfortunate arrival of Sir William Wal- 
singham, the actual knowledge that Stanhope had endeavoured 
to gain admission into the old man’s presence, was not at all 
calculated to cool all alarms ; and the certainty that Testy was 
on terms of intimacy with the family made him rejoice that 
Amelia, for whom he never entertained the least real affection, 
vras, with the whole batch of his acquaintances, removed from 
the capital. 

Although, had Walsingham been opposed face to face with 
an adversary, he might have borne himself with sufficient bra- 
very not to be disgraced, yet he was far from being a brave 
man — his conscience was his greatest foe — and not unfrequently 
would he start from his sleep, and tremble like a child, if a rat 
stole across the room, or the furniture, warped by the heat, 
cracked as it expanded : but in the tumult and the roar of revo- 
lution, his spirit had risen to its proper pitch, and having bor- 
rowed resolution and enthusiasm from words clamorously shout- 
ed by the populace, he became wound up to join those who 
contended for their rights. Overjoyed at finding himself, com- 
paratively speaking, a rich man — certainly independent, he felt 
himself buoyed up by hopes to which he had long been a stran- 
ger. No sooner had his servant announced the departure, than 
the sick man, who had been unable to rise even to see her he 
professed to love, left his house, and, joining the nearest mob, 
listened to the furious speeches of those who, in spite of all 
the horror and tyranny it had engendered but a Tew years back, 
shouted for another revolution. 

The mob, pleased at seeing an Englishman who was vehe- 
ment in his praises of the one party, and heavy in his denun- 
ciation of the other, received him as a friend and as a citizen; 
and when Walsingham made known his determination to be 
with them at daylight on the morrow, armed and willing to as- 
sist, a shout was heard in favour of England, because one of 
her unworthy sons was willing to enlist himself in the quar- 
rels of France. Excited beyond prudence, he pledged himself 
again and again to lend his assistance to the glorious cause, 
and returned to his room, to count over his riches, to keep up 
by practice his lightness of hand, and to read that book, the 
doctrines of which were upheld by his voice, but never ope- 
rated on his heart. 

It was now, whilst the shouts from without would have dis- 
turbed a braver man, that this gamester might have been seen 


THE GAMESTER. 


131 


coolly calculating all his gains, and making virtuous resolutions 
never to hazard again the chance of pauperism by public play ; 
but as long as he could increase it by private gaming, assisted 
by his worthy associate the count, he saw no objection to its 
continuance. 

Independent as he felt himself now, he had sense enough 
not to wish to return to all the privations he had known. He 
could trust to his quickness for securing dice at hazard : he 
was in possession of “ doctors,” — boxes made in so peculiar a 
manner that the dice never turn in them ; and he still carried in 
his pocket “ despatches,” dice with no sevens, aces, deuce-ace, 
or twelve upon them, and only used to rob a half-drunken game- 
ster of his all, by a continuation of “ doubles or quits,” where 
the caster calling seven for the main, can never by any possi- 
bility lose; this reserve guard to his advancement he still re- 
tained ; but as far as a gamester could feel aw'ed by a solemn 
declaration to forego gaming in public, he felt a sincerity of in- 
tention which he wound up by the old saying, “ Vice may be 
practised, but the public eye must not be ofended.” In the 
midst of the revolutionary songs which were sung in every 
street, Walsingham the gamester said his prayers and retired 
to rest. 

His morning slumbers were disturbed before the day had 
broken, by the tolling of the tocsin of St. Germain I’Auxer- 
rois. This appeal to the citizens to be awake and at their re- 
spective posts was soon answered by the bells of the other 
churches ; the silence of the night had been disturbed before 
the morning’s gleam had come, and that was welcomed by one 
simultaneous shout of “ Liberte ou mort ! — aux armes ! aux 
armes !” Drums now reverberated through all the city ; on 
every side the preparation for actual war was visible ; whilst 
the young, the old, the sick, the infirm, joined together to give 
the final stroke to their glorious work,— to carry the war into 
the very palace of tlieir king, and to shake off the shackles 
which tyranny had^ imposed, and place their country, to the 
astonished eyes of all Europe, as a free and a constitutional 
state. 

On the other hand, the troops were not idle. The sound of 
the tocsin was to them a summons to arms : accustomed to obey 
the orders of their officers, and having been carefully kept 
apart from their enraged countrymen, they drew up in a line 
with the firm resolution of maintaining their honour as sol- 


132 


WALSINGHAM, 


diers, and of blindly and implicitly being subservient to mili- j 
tary discipline. * 

As yet no actually offensive operations had begun, for an 
hour elapsed before the sound of the musket gave notice that 
the work of slaughter had commenced. The noise of the 
breaking up of the pavement in the vicinity of the palace soon 
convinced the Due de Raguse of the necessity of commencing 
operations, and of at once, if possible, quelling the tumult be- 
fore these offensive barricades could be completed. The church 
clock of St. Roch announced the half hour after four, as the 
Swiss troops, warned of the commencement of a barricade at 
the extremity of the Rue des Poulies, which is a narrow small 
street, leading from the Rue St. Honore to the Louvre, opened 
a murderous fire upon the citizens. Then was the last ‘tie 
broken ; then was the challenge of strength thrown ; then was 
to be seen if disciplined troops, with every means and appli- 
ances of war at command, could crush the determination of an 
undisciplined people to be free. 

In the stillness of the morning, the sound was audible 
throughout Paris ; the large bell of Notre Dame responded as 
it were to the war-cry, and the church of Christ was made in- 
strumental to summon men to murder and to war. Then were 
all the worst passions of human nature let loose : then might 
be heard the groans of the wounded, the cries of the women, 
and the loud shout for vengeance ; then, even above the noise 
and continued roll of musketry, resounded the misunderstood 
w'ord whilst gangs of youngsters, thirsting to dig a 

dagger in a soldier’s breast, ran shouting through the streets to 
call those who had not obeyed the first summons to arms. 

The fire of the Swiss troops was returned from a window, in 
order to draw their attention from the barricade, or, at any rate, 
to divide the fire; but although successful in this attempt, num- 
bers fell under the well-directed musketry of the soldiers, and 
the completion of the work was retarded, although not relin- 
quished. As each man fell, cries of vengeance were heard, 
every w^eapon was shaken in defiance at their enemies, and 
crowds of people were ready to replace those who had fallen 
on the barricade. Amongst these Walsingham was conspicu- 
ous : all the natural courage of the man, which fear of detec- 
tion had subdued, now broke loose ; he was foremost in every 
danger, and no voice was louder than his, as he called to those 
around to follow him to revenge, and protect their comrades. 
Animated by the cheers, the populace worked hard in spite of 


THE GAMESTER. 


133 


the galling fire ; but to such an extent was it impeded, that 
eleven o’clock had struck before it was completed ; and scarcely 
had it been finished, when one of the leaders, who had worked 
beside Walsingham, and who was of almost gigantic stature, 
received a mortal wound, and as he fell, shouted out, in the last 
effort of his lungs, “Vive la Nation !” 

The death of this man, who had never ceased to animate his 
companions as he ventured with unflinching bravery his life, 
drew forth loud shouts of vengeance ; — a rush, in all the confu- 
sion of an undisciplined horde when animated by revenge and 
encouraged by example, followed. The Swiss, astonished at 
this simultaneous attack, were panic-stricken at the approach of 
such overpowering nu.mbers rushing headlong amongst them 
unscared by the death-dealing volleys which saluted them, and 
which left almost a barrier of the dead, for the living to leap 
over. They retreated before the dense mass of infuriated citi- 
zens, and sought shelter in the Tuileries. 

The whole of Paris was now involved in smoke : the cannon 
of the regular troops was awfully re-echoed from the surround- 
ing heights ; whilst a deep dense cloud hung over the devoted 
city, darkening the very daylight. Many and many were the 
charges made by the Royal Guard up the Rue Castiglione, 
through the Place Vendome and Rue de la Paix, to the Boule- 
vards. One moment, the houses would be occupied, to the hor- 
ror of its female occupants, by men, loosely clad and black witli 
powder, who rushed to the windows and commenced a spirited 
fire, and who passed unnoticed charms which at other times 
would have attracted unpleasant observation ; but now, such was 
the chivalry of the cause, that no woman was insulted, no plun- 
der committed ; every man, in reality, seemed anxious for the 
success of his cause, and the worst part of society became ho- 
nourable in their present calling. 

No sooner would this party have gained the houses, than the 
Garde Royale would dislodge them. There vras no quarter 
given; the canaille, as the insolent soldiery termed those who 
were struggling for their freedom, were bayoneted without re- 
morse if they could not effect their escape. The windows again 
became occupied by the regular troops ; and thus the slaughter 
was continued with unabated fury. 

Barricades having been erected in all parts of the town, the 
troops of the line found it a useless sacrifice of life to storm 
these hundred defences : for in gaining one, they gained no per- 
manent advantage ; they were assailed from every window, and 

VOL. II. 12 


134 


WALSINGHAM, 


every advance was checked by a barricade wliich seemed to 
have been the work of years, rather than the active measure of 
one night. Amidst this scene of destruction — this savage slaugh- 
ter, the tocsin’s awful sound might be heard through the mo- 
mentary cessation of musketry ; whilst the shrill sound of the 
boy and the deep-toned voice of the man unceasingly called, 
“ Aux armes ! aux armes ! — liberte ou mort !” 

The Duke de Raguse, on the preceding evening, being well 
aware that arms alone would settle the dispute, had been active 
in his defence of the Tuileries and the Louvre. The latter place 
became a kind of citadel, and its connexion with the former was 
of the first importance, — for had it been taken, the troops had 
no retreat but out of the metropolis. The position was good; 
on one side, the Seine rendered it unassailable but by the 
bridges, and these were easily defended ; on the other side, the 
streets were narrow, and commanded. The citizens had, there- 
fore, only the Place St. Germain I’Auxerrois on the eastern 
front of the palace, and the Gardens of the Tuileries, which 
were entirely occupied by the regular troops, on the western 
side. From the former position an attack was made by the 
citizens, commanded by General Gerard. They were but indif- 
ferently armed ; although the National Guards had reorganised 
themselves, and came provided with the weapon they had car- 
ried under the dominion of Napoleon. But very different was 
the situation of the two Swiss regiments which garrisoned the 
Louvre : they were stationed in detachments, some in the Gar- 
den of the Infanta, whilst others were posted at the dilferent 
windows and outlets, from which in comparative security they 
could steadily take aim ; — they were besides amply provided 
with field-pieces, and had ammunition more than enough for a 
protracted defence. Every one stood ready : it was the place 
most requisite in Paris to defend, — indeed it might be termed 
the very camp or citadel of the regular troops. We purpose 
giving this attack, as it is blended in some degree with Walsing- 
ham, and is necessary to the developement of his history. 

The first grand object of General Gerard, was to gain posses- 
sion of the houses in the vicinity and in the Place St. Germain 
I’Auxerrois, and to hold every position wdthin view and gun- 
shot of the object of attack ; but the church itself afforded the 
most commanding situation, as from its numerous loop-holes, 
its towers, and its galleries, they overlooked the square of the 
Louvre, and could pour down steady and well-directed fires upon 
the unprotected troops. This grand object w'as obtained without 


THE GAMESTER. 


135 


much loss. Walsingham was seen on the gallery waving to 
others to follow ; whilst each seemed anxious to displace his 
neighbour, more openly to share the danger, and more readily 
to engage the foe. 

The fire was opened : it was like one continued roll of the 
drum, for there was no interval of time of longer duration than 
between the beat, in the discharge of the musketry. The can- 
non of the regular troops thundered back an answer ; whilst the 
Swiss troops, from their difierent stations, opened a steady and 
destructive fire. On the summit of the church, the tricoloured 
liag was displayed ; whilst on the Tuileries might be seen 
hanging down its staff, — for the weather was cairn and sultry, — 
the white emblem of the Bourbons. Volley after volley, and 
cannon after cannon, continued their awful destruction : but on 
the one side the dead were replaced from the numbers anxious 
to participate in this attack; whilst on the other, every shot 
which took effect weakened the numbers of the regular troops. 
It soon became evident that the fire from the Louvre was con- 
siderably slackened. Shout after shout encouraged the citizens ; 
whilst their opponents, gradually diminishing in numbers, felt 
as each cheer reached them that the courage of the one party 
was increasing as the feebleness of the other became more 
manifest. 

It was nearly noon, the heat oppressive beyond imagination, 
and human nature might have sought repose w’ithout fatigue to 
have prompted it; — but in the fury of excitement who feels 
fatigue? The cry was now to storm the Louvre, and Walsing- 
ham descended from the gallery of the church to be one even of 
the forlorn hope. A reinforcement of two hundred men had 
just arrived : the crowds of people from the barricade in the Rue 
des Poulies continued to swell the numbers of the besiegers, and 
the cry to assault the gates became general. Three columns 
were soon marshalled : one came by the Pont des Arts, another 
by the Quai de I’Ecole, and the third, by the colonnade, from 
the Place St. Germain I’Auxerrois. The Swiss saw the gather- 
ing storm, and manfully stood to oppose it: it was one grand 
sea of human life, increasing as it reached its destination until it 
broke in all its fury on the gate of the Louvre. Dense as the 
mass was, and steady as the Swiss stood and fired, yet the 
slaughter was comparatively small ; it served more to quicken 
the pace of the besiegers than to retard it, and, in spite of all 
opposition, they reached the wished-for gate. One volley, the 
last heard in that quarter, laid many a gallant fellow asleep ; the 


136 


WALSINGHAM, 


rest, shouting “ En avant!*’ broke through all impediments, and 
rushed into the court of the I«ouvre, shouting “ Vive la Charte 1” 

Walsingham was one of the foremost, and escaped even this 
attack. He seemed to bear a charmed life : he was in front in 
every attack, but the ball of the enemy passed him by as if un- 
willing to rid the earth of a being who until this day possessed 
not a friend but one — and that a woman — in the world, and took 
as its victim another by whom a family was supported, and 
through whose generous exertions the poor and the needy were 
supplied. 

The first column had advanced with more regularity than the 
others ; and when they rushed into the court, they found them- 
selves propelled forward by the other two, which came pell-mell 
in its rear, increasing its numbers as its footsteps advanced. 
Gallantly did the Swiss troops retire : they never showed their 
backs to the foe, but retired showing a full and noble front, sepa- 
rating according to their orders, to reinforce the gates which 
iVonted the Rue du Coq, and ultimately, as that defence was 
carried, retiring in good order to the Place du Carrousel, within 
the iron railway which encloses the space in front of the Tuile- 
ries, they again stood, to protect the palace. Weakened as they 
were, and dispirited by the courageous advance of those they 
had as soldiers been taught to despise, the assailants, flushed 
with conquest, at every moment increasing in numbers, ani- 
mated by shouts, and conscious of the rectitude of their cause, 
advanced to this last stronghold, inferior indeed to the Louvre, 
but still capable of great resistance. Here the Due de Raguse 
commanded in person. The rush of the citizens overpowered 
the almost exhausted Swiss troops, who now*, seized with a 
panic, turned round and fled, carrying with them the gallant 
Duke, who in vain attempted to rally them. He had brought 
forward the whole of his force to cover the retreat ; but the re- 
treat had become a flight ; the mass bore their general through 
the palace under the tower of the clock, and keeping up a strag- 
gling and almost useless fire, they hurried through the Gardens 
of the Tuileries, to make a momentary halt in the Place Louis 
XV. The palace was now taken : although some troops in the 
Pavilion of Flora contested that part with admirable valour, it 
was useless contending when their comrades had flown. The 
lily of France was lowered, and the tricoloured flag was once 
more upon the signal-siaflf of the palace I 


THfi GAMESTER. 


137 


CHAPTER XIV. 


The excitement was nearly over : the Tuileries had surren* 
dered, tlie Duke de Raguse had evacuated Paris, and the capital 
was wrested from the king’s authority. 

Walsingham’s eye would have again quailed before the glance 
of an honest man. He had embroiled himself in a quarrel in 
which he had no interest; he had served with his best endea- 
vours those to whom he was a stranger — he had manifested the 
courage of an Englishman, and had not disgraced his country’s 
fame for bravery and coolness. Slowly now he retraced his 
steps ; the fire had ceased along the Rue Castiglione, and an un- 
comfortable calm prevailed. 

On turning the corner of the Boulevards, he perceived several 
groups of men in conversation ; they had piled their arms, as 
regular soldiers are accustomed to do when the fatigue of the 
day is over: it was a respite most earnestly desired, for hardly 
in the memory of a Parisian had a more sultry day occurred. 

With a wish to ascertain the feelings of the party with whom 
lie had associated himself, he listened with intense interest to 
their remarks upon the bravery of their comrades ; nor was he 
displeased when he heard his own description given, and an ani- 
mated burst of applause from all present as the relater of the 
event told of his gallant deeds at the Louvre. 

Well,” said an old Frenchman, the sleeves of whose shirt 
was turned up above his elbows, and whose countenance con- 
firmed him as a veteran soldier, “ I wonder what we are to get 
for all this fighting 

“ Honour !” said one. 

“ Liberty I” said another. 

“ A glass of vin ordinaire and four sous each,” said a third. 

“ Ay,” said the first speaker, “ we shall get all that, but no 
more ; all the loaves and fishes will be divided amongst our pre- 
sent friends, who, when they have done with us, will denomi- 
nate us the canaille again. Lafayette is already at the head of 
the National Guards ; they will soon manufacture a king, for they 

18 ^ 


138 


WALSINGHAH, 


have some of the old stuff left yet : the rich and the great will 
be greater, and the poor and the labourer worse off than before : 
it is easy to get up a disturbance, but hard to quiet a revolutiona- 
ry city. I have always remarked,” continued the old fellow, 
“ that when a man is rich, his riches are sure to increase ; every 
one gives to him who does not require it, because it may ulti- 
mately serve for themselves : — the poor get poorer, and as 
strength fails, or sickness weakens, so their bad name increases, 
and they are called ‘ idle, dissolute, impertinent, intruding vaga- 
bonds.’ ” 

“There must be some to rule,” interrupted Walsingham, 
“ and some to obey : if we were all to be equal, no one would 
stand sentinel at the Louvre.” 

“ Bah !” interrupted the old revolutionist ; “ you are an En- 
glishman, and would run half round Paris to get a nod from a 
nobleman. Go home ; we can settle our disputes without the 
interference of foreigners.” 

Walsingbam left the crowd, a shout of ridicule following his 
retreat. “ And it is for this that I have ventured my life, and, 
having just become independent, perilled all my future pros- 
pects ! Fool that I was to interfere in that which never con- 
cerned me! I am, or was, in the condition of all mercenary 
troops, shedding men’s blood for money : at least, I could claim 
a remuneration, — perhaps get a piece of gold to dangle with a 
red riband from a button-hole, and dismissed as having been 
largely recompensed ; and if I was starving, be told that I had 
served and been paid, — to go home, as the people in power 
could settle their own disputes. But all is over now, and in 
three days I shall roll over the streets in my cabriolet : my mo- 
ney I will instantly invest in the French funds, — th°y are ap- 
pallingly low, but must recover, — and this shall be my last act 
of gaming. Those cursed Stanhopes are, thank God, gone, and 
before they return I shall be far away, and try, under another 
name, another country.” 

Thus pondered Walsingham, as he slowly dragged his wea- 
ried footstep to his own apartment. There no one had intruded, 
and the room looked in the same order and neatness as when he 
foolishly rushed out to fight. He first quenched his burning 
thirst; and having thrown aside his outer garments, he laid down 
to rest. In a moment almost he was in a sound repose, and his 
ears, accustomed to the noise of musketry, which still in many 
parts of the city continued, never reminded him that the work 
of death was still going on. 


THE GAMESTER. 


139 


Towards the Porte St. Denis, and on the Boulevards oppo- 
site the Cafe Turc, tlie ground had been hotly contested. A 
large party of the Gendarmerie had endeavoured to silence the 
murmurs of some of the most violent. Anns were unhesitating- 
ly used by the popular party, and in self-defence the police had 
used their own. Of course, some lives were lost; and the low 
part of the populace, being quite unable to draw a distinction be- 
tween justifiable defence and wanton cruelty, accused these 
miserable gendarmes of having barbarously murdered their com- 
panions. Some of the police who were wounded and fell, were 
most savagely bayoneted, or cut to pieces : and if at the Louvre 
a kind of patriotic fervour had been shown, at the Porte St. 
Denis there had been a worse feeling exhibited. There was at 
that point a kind of barbarous disposition to slaughter. The 
lower orders, who had been vomited forth from the cabarets in 
the neighboiirhoo(J, made light of the blood-shedding pastime ; 
and as some poor fellow, who in the discharge of his duty had 
been surrounded, assailed, beaten down and killed, gave his last 
breath for all he held dear in life — his child, some Tow wanton 
joke was sported, and perhaps was the last human sound that 
fell upon the dying man’s ear. This bad feeling got worse as 
it increased : it was confined, it is true, to a very few ; but 
these few had full power to carry it into effect. 

One of these scenes, which might appal a firmer heart than a 
woman’s, was witnessed from the window of the Cafe Turc ; 
and all the miseries which Walsingham had pictured on the 
night when he recommended their flight from Paris was appre- 
hended. It arose from the gendarmes having solicited from the 
mob a cessation of hostilities for two hours, in order to come to 
some permanent treaty, which would prevent any further flow 
of blood. The populace, overcome more by the intense heat of 
the day than by the actual opposition of their enemies, were 
overjoyed at this overture, which they fondly imagined would 
end all the disturbances. They, therefore, after having quenched 
their thirst, stood in groups discussing the affairs of the day. 
Some boys climbed the arch of St. Denis, and placed a trico- 
loured flag thereon, waving their hats, and shouting out, “ Vive 
la Nation !” 

No sooner did the Gendarmes perceive this favourable op- 
portunity than they resumed the attack upon the unarmed, 
unprepared citizens, and many were thus slaughtered. A rush 
was made at the arms by both parties; but they were seized by 
the unwounded men and discharged as the police advanced. A 


140 


WALS INGHAM, 


savage retaliation now ensued : in vain the wounded soldier cried 
for mercy — the word was unknown ; they were sacrificed, 
butchered without remorse and without feeling. 

It was only at the Porte St. Denis that these atrocities were 
committed. The Swiss troops, who fired on the populace in 
the Place du Palais Royal in a similar manner, paid dearly for 
their treachery ; but they fought with the intention of dying 
rather than surrendering, being fully impressed with the erro- 
neous idea that their abandoning their arms would be the sure 
step to their murder. The citizens who fought in that quarter 
of the town were animated with a very different feeling, — murder 
or plunder was not their intention : and it is one of the most 
astonishing facts in that revolution, that the thirsty soldiers in 
many instances refused wine, which they could have procured 
without the smallest difficulty, and rather chose to continue 
under the sensation of thirst than quench it by any other means 
than water, more especially if the wine was to be procured by 
plunder. 

This highly chivalrous feeling was not, however, universal. 
There must be some evil-disposed people in all cities, and these 
few availed themselves of the opportunity granted them by the 
confusion which prevailed. 

The tumult w^as fast subsiding : it was three o’clock when 
Walsingham again quitted his house, and loitered up towards 
the Porte St. Denis, in order to trace the ruin which three days 
had caused the capital. All along the line of road, many people 
were collected, busy in congratulating each other in their escape : 
former disputes and petty grievances seemed reconciled by this 
revolution*; people who had quarrelled for years shook hands 
and were made permanent friends ; and Paris resembled one 
immense arena, where a population were assembled to swear 
eternal peace and happiness. Even Walsingham felt somewhat 
relieved in mind by this universal display of good feeling ; he 
walked amongst them, smiled upon them, and joined his hand 
with many who were anxious to testify that several English had 
been forenmst in the day’s danger. 

From one group he passed to another. Here the same good 
feeling, the same rejoicing existed ; but as he neared the Porte 
St. Denis, he became sensible that a great change of character 
existed. Some who were most clamorous, and whose faces 
were sullen, seemed to add to intoxication a savage unrelenting 
disposition ; and as he shunned this group to near another where 
the Marseillaise was sung in discordant rioting, he saw further 


THE GAMESTER. 


141 


on a considerable confusion. Groups of people were discovered 
rushing vvitli their arms to a place just beyond the Porte St. Denis. 
Two or three muskets were now heard, and this was followed 
I by a more regular volley. Walsingham saw the tricolonred flag 
' waving over the arch, and saw also from that edifice the smoke 
of fire arms. The English disposition to meddle in quarrels 
indifferent to them, caused him to quicken his pace. The firing 
elsewhere had ceased altogether, for the troops under the Duke 
de Raguse had retreated far beyond the Barriere de I’Etoile, and 
the other regiments of the line which had been stationed at 
diflferent parts of the city had long since joined the popular 
party. Walsingham was perhaps animated by a generous dis- 
position to save any further effusion of blood, and by men- 
tioning how completely the soldiery had deserted the capital, 
to bridle the inclination of the few police left to any further 
opposition. 

Seeing the crowd evidently in pursuit of some object, he 
stepped nimbly forward, when to his astonishment he saw the 
mob chasing one man, who by his dress he soon recognised to 
be a gendarme. The poor fellow was wounded, and was making 
this last attempt to save his life ; whilst the infuriated people, 
most of whom were armed, called out to seize the reptile and fix 
him as a mark against the Porte St. Denis. 

This scene had not escaped the party at the Cafe Turc ; for 
as the firing had previous to this been partially suspended, the 
ladies, imitating others of their sex, and gathering courage by 
example, had without fear advanced to the windows. With 
intense interest they watched the termination of this affair. The 
rash man had in his uniform ventured from his lurking-place : 
he was instantly recognised ; the revenge which was uppermost 
in the drunken minds of the mob prompted them to seize their 
arms, and the poor fellow, seeing their object, endeavoured, by 
stepping suddenly from side to side, to avoid the death he saw, 
when too late perhaps, to be almost inevitable. By his quick- 
ness he escaped the ill-directed shots, until one, a mere random 
fire, struck him in the leg, — he felt the wound, but struggled 
with the pain — the hounds were soon upon him, they seized 
him, and threw him on the ground. 

“ Let’s all have a shot at him,” said a youngster of about 
seventeen, who had been placed on the arch, and who had taken 
not one, but five or six shots at the flying enemy : “ my brother 
is killed, and I will have revenge !” 

“ That’s noble;” said another; “of course you shall have a 


142 


WALSINGHAM, 


a shot at him. Let us place him with his back against the 
Porte St. Denis, and we will soon have blood for blood.” 

In drunken society, a hint is almost invariably taken ; there 
is no folly a drunken man will not commit, and no crime of 
which he is not capable; — such is the penalty exacted for dis- 
gracing the human intellect, and of levelling man with the brute. 
No sooner was the horrid proposition made, than the victim’s 
arms were lashed, and his legs secured against all escape. It 
required but little time to effect this. The poor fellow was then 
led to the arch, or rather dragged, and was placed upright 
against it. 

“ Hear me, my comrades,” he said, “before you murder me. 
I only did my duty, which I was bound to do ; why then do 
you seek to kill me, and leave one of your own countrywomen 
a widow, and three French boys fatherless ?” 

“ My brother! give me back my brother you have murdered !” 
said the half drunken lad, “ and then we may listen to your 
nonsense. Stand out of the way, boys ! I will soon send poor 
William a companion.” 

Stanhope and Douglass had both witnessed this sight, but the 
distance was too great to hear what was said ; and John, who had 
kept a look-out from the mast-head of the coach, and had there 
remained perfectly indifferent to the shot which whistled by 
him, had, on seeing the capture of the gendarme, and observing 
that the fight was over, descended from his perch and joined the 
mob. 

When the youngster had finished his speech and was pre- 
paring to take aim, the crowd opened on both sides, and be- 
tween an avenue of human beings the little drunkard presented 
his musket. 

“Avast heaving, shipmate!” said Jack, as he caught hold of 
the musket and pointed its muzzle aloft. “Avast heaving, I 
say ! What ! would you fire into an enemy after he had struck 
his colours, and you have secured the prize? D — n it! I did 
not think that people who could fight so well, would fire into a 
sinking craft !” 

“ Aha, Monsieur Jean Bull ! — allez, allez, mon enfant !” 
roared the mob ; about twenty of them caught hold of him and 
drew him out of the line of fire; whilst John kicked his adver- 
.saries, and whenever an arm became for a moment free, he 
made the best j)ossible use of it in endeavouring to free 
himself. 

It was now that the boy again raised his musket to fire, but 


THE GAMESTER. 


143 


found his arm impeded by the presence of another stranger, 
who stood witli the utmost composure right before the body of 
the pinioned gendarme. It was Walsingham. 

The scene which had excited much attention from the Cafe 
Turc, was now becoming of intense interest. “It is him ! it is 
him !” said Amelia, as she covered her eyes with her hands. 
“ For God’s sake save him ! tell him wliere we are.” 

Stanhope, ever alive to do a good action, and perfectly heed- 
less of any danger, in spite of Margaret’s entreaties, who, when 
she found her husband likely to be embroiled, became more ani- 
mated, seized his hat and rushed towards the spot. He passed 
his servant without recognising him ; although he afterwards 
confessed that he heard some words which, however eager peo- 
ple are to repeat, could only have come from the grog-burnt 
throat of a sailor. 

The blood of the mob being up, they were resolved to gain 
their point: there was a cry of — “ Fire ! why don’t you fire !” 
from the people nearest the boy. “ Never mind that fellow,” 
said one : “ what business has he there.” 

Stanhope heard this, and elbowed through the mob towards 
the boy, whilst Walsingham had turned round to liberate the 
prisoner. The clamour increased : the boy stood with the mus- 
ket pointed towards the ground and in the act of raising ; Stan- 
hope seized it, — it went off at the moment its muzzle was level 
with Walsingham; the gendarme was seen again to run for 
his life, as a human form fell over the spot on which he had 
stood. 

“There,” said the boy; “that comes of interference! If 
you had not touched the musket, it never would have gone off, 
and that Englishman never would have been killed.” 

The report of the musket seemed a signal for releasing Jack, 
who, finding himself at liberty, ran towards the spot, and there 
found his master vainly endeavouring to carry the wounded man. 
Without looking attentively at the person he was about to serve, 
Jack seized Walsingham by the shoulders, whilst Stanhope 
lifted his legs, and they bore him through the crowd, who were 
now very eager to recover the man who had thus been most 
miraculously rescued, and allowed them to pass unmolested. 

“ You are in a great hurry to give yourself pain,” said a 
voice, as Stanhope pushed through the crowd : “you had much 
better have let him die where he was.” 

Stanhope turned a hasty glance — it was Testy who spoke, 
and who was slowly following the wounded man. 


144 


Walsingham, 


“Assist us, Mr. Testy,” said Stanhope. i 

“Certainly I will,” replied the old man, “if you take j 
him to any other place than where you are going. The experi- 
ment will be fatal one way or the other.” 

“We have no other place,” said Stanhope hastily. “To 
what house could we take a wounded friend but our own ?” 

“You had better take him any where else, or leave such a 
friend to find people as worthy as himself to assist him. You 
are heaping coals of fire upon his head, and most religiously 
returning good for evil. I will not assist you — I will not lose 
sight of you — you cannot get out of Paris ; but you may get to 
some hotel and leave him to the people of the house, who will, 
after all, be very much obliged to your family, as your brother- 
in-law’s pilfered money will pay the doctor.” 

They were now at the Cafe Turc, and Testy stood still. 
Jack carried his burthen up stairs, assisted by his master, and 
they laid the wounded man upon a bed. The screams of the 
women had been plainly heard as Stanhope ascended the stairs, 
and he rushed instantly down below to relieve their apprehen- 
sions. 

“ He is not dead, Amelia, — he is not dead, I assure you !” 
as he forestalled the question she was about to ask. She threw 
her arms round her brother and blessed him for the timely inter- 
ference, and would have disregarded all propriety, by attending 
the wounded man herself. The commands of Mrs, Douglass, 
the cold dissuasion of Margaret, the injunctions of Stanhope, 
were combated by this girl, who, having given lier hand and 
heart to Walsingham, saw no impropriety in attending him as a 
nurse. 

In the mean time, Testy was not idle; he had procured a 
surgeon, and was on his way back to the Cafe, urging the 
Frenchman to walk quicker, as the latter stopped every minute 
to give greater effect to his words, as he prophesied with the 
extent of his wisdom, that when revolutions began, the public 
peace was much disturbed, and that he foresaw in the future 
a slight continuance of the present state of affairs. 

“Goto him,” said Amelia to Stanhope, — “go to him, and 
let me hear the worst : and if in five minutes, by this slow-mov- 
ing watch, you are not returned, nothing shall keep me from 
him. Would you have him die, and not remember me ? — 
would you have him die, I say, and I not catch his last 
breath ?” 

Stanhope ascended the stairs — he opened the door, and, to 


THE GAMESTER. 


145 


his astonishment, found his servant standing like a statue, his 
eyes fixed upon the pale and fainting countenance of Walsing- 
ham, his lips muttering — “ By God, it’s him ! and d — me if I 
have not carried him !” 


CHAPTER XV. 


The French surgeon was like most of his countrymen in 
that profession — a good anatomist, a quick operator; he probed 
the wound, and instantly declared that it was not mortal. He 
was despatched, after dressing the wound, down stairs to the 
ladies to give the exact technical description of it ; not one word 
of which, saving that no serious results were apprehended, 
could they understand. 

Testy remained with Stanhope and his servant in the room. 
They ^ll, with the exception of Jack, seemed anxious to attend 
upon Walsingham. One raised his head gently higher; and 
Testy, wfthout making any remark, chafed his temples with 
eau de Cologne. Douglass also contributed as much as possi- 
ble to alleviate the pain of the sufferer : but Jack stood still, his 
eyes fixed upon the features as they gradually resumed their 
usual appearance, as returning life animated the man. 

“He is coming to,” said Stanhope; “he breathes faintly 
again ; but he has no strength to open his eyes.” 

“ I hope,” said Jack, “ he’s not broaching to yet, and that 
the life-lines are not cut asunder, for it’s him, or I’m a Dutch- 
man.” 

“Why, we know it’s him,” said Stanhope, pleased to see 
the recovery of the patient; “ we know very well it’s Mr. Wal- 
singham : we did not want a ghost to come from its grave to 
tell us that.” 

“ If the ghost did come, begging your honour’s pardon,” said 
Jack, “ and told me that fellow was Mr. Walsingham, I’d knock 
it back to its hammock, if it had been buried sailor-fashion, and 
tell the dead gemman he lied like a horse, and was as false as a 
slippery side-rope ; for if I’m John Jenkins”— (Walsingham 
appeared to start) — “ and I never shipped a purser’s name yet, 

13 


146 


WALSINGHAM, 


I 


that fellow who is snivelling there, and afraid to die like a man, ] 
is Cavendish!'’* 

A loud slap of Mr. Testy’s hand upon his own knee followed 
the word, and the parties present might have heard “As right 
as a trivet; I think they will know him nowP 

“ Cavendish !” exclaimed Stanhope ; whilst Douglass caught 
the same note, and ejaculated “ Cavendish P* 

Stanhope turned round to Testy ; their eyes met — it was 
impossible to mistake the V Is it true ?” of the one, and the 
cool affirmative of the other. He held his hands together, and 
raising them to Heaven, poured out his heart in saying — “ My 
God ! my God ! what affiiciion is come upon us !” 

Walsingham had heard every word ; and short as the time 
was, it was sufficient for him to recover enough to speak. 

“ Hear me, sir,” he began. “ I feel my time is short now, 
and that Death will soon claim me. I have a load, a heavy load 
weighing me down — Don’t look so on me,” he continued, as 
he saw the sailor’s eyes fixed upon him, — “ and I will tell you 
all of myself before I die. Grant me this one request : let me 
recover a little more — leave me in quietness for an hour ; and 
if my tongue can unburthen Tny mind, 1 will endeavour to regain 
one lost chance of Heaven, and not go down to the grave with 
a lie upon my lips. — Leave me.” 

Testy, Stanhope, and Douglass immediately prepared to leave 
the room ; but Jack stood still. “ I axes your pardon,” he 
began, “ but I’m blessed if I do leave the room ! — you and I 
have a great account to settle, and it will take some time before 
the yards are square, and all the gear stopped up. The doctor 
said that you would weather the Devil this time ; but it’s my 
fault if you weather me. Here I’ll stick — I won’t budge an 
inch, not if all those vagabonds outside came to get you back to 
shoot you again. You belong to me ; we are anchored now in 
the same roadstead ; and if you slip your cable and make sail 
out of the window, why it’s my look-out, and I sha’n’t blame 
any one but myself. There, — you need not begin to try to 
humbug me ; I won’t say a word to stop your hailing Heaven, 
if you are so inclined ; and if you can get up there with a clean 
bill of health and no quarantine, so much the better for you. 

But this is what I take the liberty of saying — ‘ It’s no use hav- 
ing any one rated as Devil to look after the ship’s company of 
the World, if he does not catch you.’” 

Having delivered himself of this oration, Jack took a chair 
and seated himself at the foot of the bed. 


THE GAMESTER. 


147 


Testy smiled ; and neither Douglass nor Stanhope could 
entirely keep their countenances at Jack’s idea of the duty of 
the Devil. They left the room closing the door, whilst Jack 
just said as he last thought, “You had better bear a hand and 
set to work, my lad, for as your voice must be very strange up 
aloft, perhaps they may listen to it ; you have not bothered 
them much with your prayers, so shoot ahead and save the 
tide ; — I won’t be a shoal in your way.” 

VValsingham turned his eyes away from the injured brother 
of an injured sister; whilst Jack never moved a muscle of his 
face, but kept his eyes fixed upon tlie wounded man, as a sig- 
nal-man would at the mast-head of the admiral ship, when the 
stop of the flag was to be broken at eight o’clock in the morning. 
Not a word passed : one seemed lost in abstraction of thought ; 
the other, pondering over revenge, and watchful to inflict it. 

It required some good management and much consideration 
how to proceed. To have ventured into the salon below and 
at once proclaimed the discovery, would have been to have 
raised a storm none could have calmed. Testy, who was al- 
ways thoughtful and possessed a thorough knowledge of the 
human mind, led his two companions into a small room ; he 
took Stanhope familiarly by the sleeve, and jerking his elbow 
as usual against the side of his listener, began — 

“ I told you long ago you knew that man : you denied it. I 
told you,” he continued addressing Douglass, “ at that dinner 
at the Salon, about your system and your friend. I warned you 
both of the danger of bad company : it was unheeded. Now, 
if you can borrow wisdom from the experience of others, listen. 
You must remove instantly from this house : you must say the 
truth, that he is too unwell to be moved ; but that you will 
leave a faithful friend to watch him — I mean that rough dia- 
mond in the top-boots ; he does not seem much inclined to leave 
him. You may walk through Paris now as quietly as you 
could a month ago ; and all the annoyance you can have to 
dread is perhaps the forced salutations of those heroes who 
now are upon stilts, merely to fall the heavier : but, above all 
things, mind how this discovery is hinted. I have been all my 
life studying human nature ; and a man must rise very early to 
deceive me. Your sister loves that man passionately, else she 
would not have allowed her tears the other day at dinner to 
manifest her weakness. She will now be desperate — a wounded 
lover is much more dangerous than a sound one : besides, he 
risked his life for another — and she saw it. You must remove 
instantly.” 


148 


WALSINGHAM, 


« Mr. Testy,” said Stanhope, “ no man is under greater 
obligations than I am to you ; and it relieves me much to ex- 
press it.” 

“ That’s quite enough of that,” interrupted Testy. “I hate 
expressions of gratitude ; they seem to imply that one of the 
parties concerned has made a fool of himself.” 

Stanhope smiled and continued, — “ You can answer me one 
question, and that one will decide in my mind my future con- 
duct ; for although I cannot look back upon that name without 
feelings of the most painful nature, yet, saving the gaming and 
the cheating, 1 can overlook that which, as a brother of the un- 
fortunate girl, would have prompted me to commit a murder 
rather than to have overlooked an insult. Is that man the son 
of Sir William Walsingham *?” 

“ Why, I will not make the devil blacker than he is. I knew 
him many years ago as Walsingham; I afterwards knew him 
as Cavendish, he having, according to his own account, taken 
that name for some property, which, I fancy, was won from a 
person of that name, and who thus living made him his heir. 
After a period of some years, he returned again as Walsingham, 
— Sir William not liking his son to take the name. It is a 
jumble, you see : but when people gamble and pilfer, they have 
as many names as play-actors ; he may or he may not be that 
old man’s son : but as he believes himself dying, and French 
surgeons generally give a flattering account of wounds at first, 
in all probability he will make friends with the world, and be 
for once acquainted with truth. — But it is idle wasting time 
here ; the evening creeps on : remove your family to the Hotel 
Chatham in the Rue Neuve St. Augustin. I will walk down 
with you and shake hands with the canaille : we will then 
return, and with long countenances warn him of his present 
perilous situation ; hear his story ; leave him to rot, or nourish 
him for matrimony. That’s the go, Mr. Douglass.” 

“ But what excuse,” said Stanhope, “ can we make for our 
sudden abandonment of the house ?” 

“This,” said Testy : — “that to-night half Paris will be drunk 
with wine after the long sobriety of three days; they frequent 
places of tliis kind ; and in a hotel such as I have named, the 
large gates are closed, and you are as quiet as in a country vil- 
lage in England.” 

The proposition, although made by Stanhope, backed by 
Douglass, and supported by Testy, was opposed by all the 
women. Amelia raved for her hero ; and meeting Testy’s eye, 


TtttJ GAMESTER. 


149 


her pretty lip curled with disdain as she said, “ I presume it is 
your counsel that we leave a countryman who has almost sacri- 
ficed his own life in the brave defence of another’s.” 

“ I fancy, Miss Stanhope, we shall take care of your lover, 
and of you also : in another hour you would wish yourself far 
enough from the scene of riot, drunkenness, and debauchery 
which will take place here. Besides, as you seem the most 
violent to remain, I will just add, that nothing but a revolution 
could have justified your occupying the quarters you have taken 
up : — do you understand ?” 

“ I will never leave the house until I have seen him. These 
stories are invented to serve some turn. I know you are all 
against him ; but I will triumph over all.” 

“By Allah,” said Testy, as he turned away, “she’s a mag- 
nificent creature !” — spirit enough for a dragoon horse on a 
field-day, and as resolved as a Turkish executioner when he 
has a few heads to lop off before breakfast. She must not be 
sacrificed, and she must not be driven to despair.” 

Warmly was the point contested; but it seemed true what 
Testy said, that the women would make a great stand to do a 
good action, but would listen to reason when they had talked 
themselves into heroines. “Don’t interrupt them,” he said ; 
“ allow them to believe they guide where they do but follow. 
Wise men never swim against a current ; and crows, when they 
find they can’t make head against the wind, like wise birds, sit 
on the ground until the breeze subsides.” 

After a long altercation amongst themselves, — for Testy said 
nothing but “ Just so — quite right, — clever woman,— throats 
cut — perhaps worse, — of course remain,” — they put on their 
bonnets, paid the bill, and walked off, old Testy giving his arm 
to Amelia, as both the other ladies imagined themselves only 
safe with their husbands. 

It was a sight wonderfully interesting. The fatigued citizens 
who still held the different positions along the Boulevards were 
lying down seeking a moment’s repose : here and there a wo- 
man was seen walking from man to man offering wine ; whilst 
now and then a frantic mother might be seen calling for her 
child, and cursing him who had caused this flow of blood. The 
arch of the Porte St. Denis was discovered with the marks of 
shot, — windows were broken, trees felled, the pavement taken 
up, — and the whole line presented to the eye one mass of con- 
fusion, through which carts carrying the wounded sometimes 
crept slowly along, the groans of the poor fellows as the rough 

13 * 


150 


WALSINGHAM, 


vehicle jumbled over the stones startling the most indifferent. 
The dead had been removed ; but there were many who, being 
slightly wounded, remained on the ground, seeking consolation 
from their companions. 

Slowly did the party advance ; and the fear which was at 
first evident, gave way as they increased their distance from the 
Cafe Turc. On several occasions where the mob had failed to 
observe the party, until they were obliged to request an open- 
ing to be made, these rough fellows, who had so well and so 
nobly fought the battle, lifted their hats in token of civility, and 
calling to their companions, removed any obstacle which im- 
peded their advance. Testy, who spoke French admirably, 
made continual remarks most consonant with the feelings of the 
people ; and not unfrequently he held out his hand, and was 
welcomed by those whose cause he appeared to advocate. 

“ Such is the world, Miss Stanhope,” he remarked : “ a little 
flattery is a very wholesome commodity, and he is a fool who 
opposes men’s opinions when he is;not in a position to main- 
tain it.” 

“ Do you then, Mr. Testy,” asked Amelia, “ make falsehood 
justifiable ?” 

“ On many occasions it is requisite. There are many occa- 
sions in which truth, if told, would lead to destruction ; and 
there is a vast difference between the wilful liar who detracts 
from the character of others, and the man who apparently coun- 
tenances or approves an action for which he entertains the 
greatest contempt. For instance, supposing when that man said, 
‘ What do you think of this great day’s work ?’ I had replied 
that I thought them fools to pull down one dynasty to build an- 
other — that their credit as a nation would be hurt — that they 
would become greater slaves in the necessity of stopping all 
commotions which would grow out of this — and that they had 
allowed the streets of Paris to flow with some of its best blood 
to place one man in a position which would entail a life of la- 
bour and vexation, with the regicide’s hand ever ready to plunge 
a dagger in his heart : — if I had said this, which I conscienti- 
ously believe to be the result of this foolish and bloody revolu- 
tion, I should have been beaten and reviled, if by good luck I 
avoided a greater calamity. So remember me. Miss Stanhope, 
when you place your hands before your face to conceal your 
blushes, and answer evasively a plain and proper question.” 

“ Mr. Testy,” said Amelia, who had hardly listened to the 


THE GAMESTER. 


151 


old man’s wise saws and modern instances, “ will you do me a 
favour ?” 

Certainly,” replied the strange being. 

“ Then promise to tell me exactly the state of Mr. Walsing- 
ham’s wound ; and if there is the slightest danger I implore you 
not to keep me a moment in ignorance of it.” 

“ I will nnburthen myself of my unwelcome news, be assured, 
provided you will promise to be guided by reason and discretion, 
and give me good cause to believe that you think men of my 
age cooler and more discreet than lively little ladies in love, who 
are likely to be mistaken by the outward show and tinsel ap- 
pearance of men with an object to gain.” 

“ How I hate you for the hint, Mr. Testy !” 

“Pray don’t,” replied Testy; “for as women are always in 
extremes, you may suddenly convert the gall into honey, and 
kiss me in the streets.” 

“ You seem to have a wretched opinion of our sex.” 

“ Just the contrary : you are the best of beings — rather ob- 
stinate when in love, and rather foolish when opposed. You 
rarely take time to consider either of a proposition of marriage, 
or the choice of a friend ; but you are exempt from the accusa- 
tion in regard to the selection of a dress, or of a female atten- 
dant. That’s the plain unvarnished truth, which, if you are 
sensible, you would like to hear, — and if foolish, would be 
thrown away upon you. Here you are safe at your hotel ; keep 
that little heart of yours quiet, it may yet have to beat with 
vexation. But, I trust, little confidence as I have in my own 
sex, that this man on whom you have lavished your aflections 
may be cleansed of some of the foul aspersions which have been 
affixed to his name.” 

“You will see us properly housed, Mr. Testy,” said Mrs. 
Douglass, “ and make some of those little arrangements which 
prudence requires, and which we scarcely understand : and I 
hope, Mr. Testy, we may have more of your company and 
your advice, — the one having proved so pleasant, and the other 
so useful.” 

“Very much obliged indeed,” said Testy rather sharply; 
“ but I hate compliments, — and — ” 

“ — Women,” interrupted Amelia. “I beg leave to say,” 
she continued, “that however kind Mr. Testy may have been 
in giving us his protection to this hotel, yet he was the one who 
forced us to leave Mr. Walsingham; for which I hate him — and 
there is no flattery in that.” 


152 


WALSlNGHAJtf, 


“ No,’’ said Testy ; “ that is the best compliment you have 
yet paid me,— and you will yet live to pay me a better. — Now, 
Captain Stanhope, we had better return, as your Caliban might 
fall asleep, and his charge take himself off.” 

“ 1 fancy,” said Douglass, “ the bird is hit too hard to run 
away.” 

“ Do not be too certain of that,” said Testy : “ I have seen 
many a one fall apparently dead, and run half a mile. But let 
us return — the ladies are safe. I have already agreed for the 
apartmei^ts — rather exorbitant — but people securely lodged in a 
revolution must not grumble at a few francs more or less.” 

“ I charge you, Mr. Testy,” said Amelia, “ not to forget your 
promise.” 

“ I never forget a promise. Miss Stanhope. — Come along, 
my heroes ; time flies, and so may our bird.” 

The three gentlemen now returned to the Caf6. They re- 
marked the same occupation of the Boulevards by the citizens : 
the National Guards occasionally exhibited themselves in the 
uniform which had often been paraded under Napoleon ; and 
there was in the whole scene something so animated, that not- 
withstanding the earnestness of one of the party, a considerable 
delay took place before they reached the house. 

On entering the room, they beheld John seated in exactly the 
same position, his eyes fixed upon his prisoner, his gaze so 
steady that they might have doubted if he had ever even winked 
his eyes. Walsingham had kept his closed, but opened them 
when he heard Stanhope’s voice. 

Testy began the conversation by addressing John. 

“ Has the surgeon been here again ?” 

“ Yes, sir,” said John. 

“ What did he say ?” continued Testy. 

“I’m blessed if I know,” said Jack ; “ but he jabbered away 
like a hunted monkey : and all I could make out was, that they 
were precious friends, and went on with ‘ Bless you ! bless 
you !’ {hlessure) for about half an hour, and then shook hands, 
and I dare say would have kissed each other’s dirty jowls if I 
had not kept my eyes upon them.” 

“ How is he, John ?” said Douglass. “ Does he appear weak ?” 

“ Very weak, sir, when it suits his own convenience: but 
when the doctor and him had done their jabber in this cursed 
outlandish lingo, my friend there wanted to weigh his anchors ; 
but I just saved him the trouble, mooring him a little more se- 
curely, by lashing his small bower to my starboard flipper.” 


THE GAMESTER. 


153 


And here John showed them that he held one end of his hand- 
kerchief, the other being fastened to the left foot of the wound- 
ed man. 

“ Come, come,’* said Stanhope, “ we must have no more of 
this. You had better go down and get something to eat, John: 
we will attend to Mr. Walsingham.” 

“You had better keep a sharp look-out, sir, or he’ll be in the 
streets in a crack. — But mind me, sir,” he continued, addressing 
Walsingham, “you and I have an account to settle; and I 
would have squared the yards with you long ago, only I don’t 
think it like an English seaman to fire into a sinking craft. You 
won’t lose sight of him, I hope ; and when you are tired, I will 
relieve the watch.” 

Testy, whenever Jack referred to the attempted escape of 
Walsingham, kept digging his elbow into Stanhope’s side; and 
once or twice hinted that wounded birds ran, as he had before 
mentioned. “ But, now he is past frightening with any idea of 
death from his wound, you must,” he continued in a low whis- 
per, drawing Stanhope gradually out of the room, — “ you mus.t 
probe the wound yourself. Act firmly with him : do not com- 
passionate — do not commiserate him. If he is able to speak, 
by God !” said Testy with more fervour than was usual, “ make 
him speak. — And now to work. Preface your conversation 
with your just suspicions arising from your servant’s knowledge 
of his former name. He has offered himself as your sister’s 
husband : it is your duty to see she does not throw herself away 
upon a villain. But I am more afraid of Douglass than of your- 
self ; let me tutor him, whilst you go and inquire what the doc- 
tor said of the wound.” 

Testy now drew Douglass aside, and began, “ There is a lit- 
tle mystery about your first acquaintance with Walsingham. I 
think perhaps you had better make a clean bosom of that to 
Stanhope. I can see through it all in a moment ; I am one of 
those men who sit on sofas and watch the company. I’ll tell 
you a secret you know pretty well yourself: you never were at 
school with Walsingham in your life. Now mind and keep 
quiet, whilst we fish his history out of him.” > 


154 


WALSINGHAM, 


CHAPTER XVI. 


“ I HOPE,” said Stanhope in his usual mild and gentlemanly 
manner, “ that your medical man has given you every consola- 
tion in hk account of your wound.” 

Walsingham opened his eyes, which were directed to the 
vacant chair in which the servant sat : he seemed suddenly ani- 
mated when he observed that his guard had actually left the 
room, and answered the question in a firm tone of voice, which 
quite convinced Testy that Walsingham was at his usual tricks, 
and out came the elbow, — for it was a kind of convulsive mo- 
tion, such as is recorded of Nelson’s stump whenever the great 
naval hero became agitated ; and it was, perhaps, the only bad 
habit this sincere, old, excellent, and eccentric man possessed, 
excepting always his coat. 

“I am in no danger,” Walsingham began, “and could move 
even now : it is only a flesh-wound — the shot has passed through 
the fleshy part of the shoulder without touching the bone, and I 
feel a certain confidence that I shall in a few days be better. 
Let me advise you to avail yourself of the first opportunity of 
leaving Paris ; for, rely upon it, the revolution and riot are but 
begun.” 

Testy, who stood at the door, saw through the motive : he 
was the only one not blinded by the especial forethought of 
Walsingham. “ I think,” he began, “ there is very little ap- 
prehension now : the blood will run cooler after the copious 
bleeding ; and if men are honourable during such excitement, 
there is little to apprehend from their calmer moments.” 

“Thank you kindly, Mr. Walsingham, for your kindness in 
regard to ourselves,” said Stanhope ; “ but before we part, it is 
as well to clear up a few suspicions which have arisen in ray 
mind from the exclamation of my servant, who, it seems, has 
known you before : he called you by the name of Cavendish, 
and Mr. Testy mentions that, some time since, you passed in 
Paris under the same appellation. It is my intention to leave 
Paris as soon as our carriage can be drawn from the barricade ; 


THE GAMESTER. 


155 


but I should ill perform my duty to my sister if, before I left, I 
did not endeavour to trace the history and the character of my 
future brother-in-law.” 

“You are right — very right, Mr. Stanhope,” replied Wal- 
singham, as a few drops of perspiration trickled down his face ; 
“ and I am sure I will willingly be the first to clear up any 
mystery : but the surgeon desired me carefully to abstain from 
any conversation which might agitate me ; and I must say, the 
very suspicion you have mentioned is by no means calculated 
to make an honourable mind easy. You can delay this conver- 
sation until to-morrow, when I shall be stronger, for I feel now 
very unequal to the task.” 

“ These French surgeons,” said Testy, “ know very little 
about gun-shot wounds. I had a first cousin who had exactly 
a similar wound to your own, and who died the first night after 
its infliction. Have you made your will ? — if not, I dare say I 
may witness it without hazarding my legacy. Come, Walsing- 
ham, rally : if your life could be backed against death to-night, 
you would soon muster spirit enough to rattle the old box, and 
call your favourite main of nine.” 

“ Why agitate me, Mr. Testy, by your unhandsome remarks, 
when you hazard my life ?” 

“ You cannot be very bad when you can make so wretched a 
pun. A glass of water for the fainting man ; and if you do not 
feel yourself well enough, we will leave sailor John at his post, 
and you can sleep in peace.” 

The very idea of the return of John was quite sufficient to 
rouse Walsingham, more especially as he was most thoroughly 
convinced that Testy knew he was not so weak or so languish- 
ing as he pretended to be. The easy drawl of Testy’s manner 
—his reference to the Salon, and the glass of water, were in'- 
contestable proofs ; for the old gentleman was known to be a 
most humane and attentive companion if real distress required 
consolation or rest. 

“ Come,” said Testy, who watched Walsingham narrowly, 
and apparently read his thoughts, “ we have no time to stand 
idling here : another rally might be made by the Duke de 
Raguse, — the Boulevards might become a Champ de Mars, and 
we might be shot in our return home. Captain Stanhope is 
come here for an explanation from you of certain parts of your 
life. I am his friend — his solicited friend to be a witness ; and, 
independent of that, I have the common duty of us all to fulfil. 
Your poor father lies at the point of death, awaiting the arrival 


156 


WALSINGHAM, 


of his son, whom he will perhaps bless and forgive : for there, 
thanks to the general goodness of mankind, only exists one 
man, and he was the architect of his own fortune and unenviable 
character, who could curse his only son night and morning, and 
w'ho yet will die attended only by his mistress and his house- 
maid, — who would not forgive his son at his last gasp, and die 
reconciled to him, who perhaps had deserted him in life. I tell 
you, Mr. Walsingham, I myself will bear the account of your 
wound to your father, whose days are numbered ; for he shall 
not go hence without being informed that you are in a state 
which, however flattering, may end fatally.” 

“ To what Mr. Testy has said, Mr. Walsingham,” began 
Stanhope, “ I may add this : No sister of mine shall marry a 
man who hides himself behind a mask. I am aware of certain 
parts of your life, as you, from my name and family, must be 
well aware. Speak out, and do one act to reclaim yourself. 
Confess the truth whilst you live, for your life is uncertain, — 
and as becomes a man, and, I trust, a Christian, tell me who and 
what you are, — how through this life you have followed our 
family to plunder it, like a greedy Cossack after a retreating 
army, — give us yet one gleam of hope through the darkness of 
despair, and say you are the son of Sir William Walsingham.” 

“ I cannot longer evade the question, and I feel I shall but 
imperfectly answer your question even by the recital of my life. 
This I will do : but I implore you not to judge of me too harshly, 
although I know that I deserve all the obloquy which man can 
shower upon me.” 

“ That is all very good,” interrupted Testy, “ but of no 
earthly use to us. Begin, if you like, from the hour you were 
born, if you remember so far back ; but go on straight ahead, 
as your watchman John would say, until you come to this bed- 
room, out of which, if you tell the truth, God grant you may 
remove ; and if not, with the consent of the Devil, may you die. 
I dare say you have caught many a fish for him, and, of course, 
he will not be ungrateful. — Go on.” 

“I will,” said Walsingham. — “I am,” he began, “the son 
of Sir William Walsingham, now in Paris.” 

“ Stop,” said Testy: “are you sure you have not begun 
with as cursed a lie as ever came from a man who thought 
death out of the country.” 

“ I deserve this,” said Walsingham, — “I know I deserve it; 
for he who rarely spoke the truth in health, cannot be astonished 
if even his last word is doubted. I repeat, that I am the son of 


THE GAMESTER. 


157 


that man, — his most unworthy — most guilty son. My age is 
only thirty-two ; and yet I am well aware that sleepless nights, 
uneasy mind, and conscious cowardice have furrowed my cheeks 
and given me the haggard appearance of a sickly being at forty- 
five : my hair is gray, my sight impaired — ” 

“I doubt that,” interrupted Testy. 

“ — My hand unsteady : yet I never drank myself into this 
prepature old age, nor occasioned it by excessive debauchery — ” 

“ Hum,” said Testy, as the sharp elbow rattled against Stan- 
hope’s side. 

“ — My health has been impaired by my mind, for that has 
never been at ease since I left my father’s house. It is useless 
wearying myself or you with any account of my early life. 
From the first moment that I can remember, I was addicted to 
gaming ; and now, as I may as well confess all, to cheating. It 
is said vice is progressive — that no man walks over the green- 
sward of innocence to topple suddenly over the Tarpeian rock 
of crime, and sink into the Curtian gulf of infamy. In a man, 
it may be true ; in a boy, perhaps erroneous. In all our pas- 
tiiTies, Honour was by me considered as a fool who unsuspect- 
ingly stood idle whilst Ingenuity picked his pocket. There is 
a thing called luck ; but as Fortune never favoured me, I made 
up by cunning what vvas kept from me by that goddess. I was 
expelled a public school for a fault which I shall forbear to 
mention.” 

“ D — n it!” said Testy ; “ had you no mother to teach you 
the path of honour, or no father to rebuke you for a fault?” 

“Both,” continued Walsingham ; “ but both too kind, — too 
filled with the sweetest dispositions to overlook the faults of an 
only son, severely to censure, or cruelly to condemn him. It 
is here I pause for a moment ; the vices of the boy may be re- 
claimed by the rod of the master and the eye of the parent ; and, 
though now, — for I feel some long-lost affection creeping over 
me, some calm as I unburthen my mind even to those who must 
despise me, — I feel a glow of love and affection to those who so 
loved me : I feel myself recalled to those days when advice was 
given from a mother’s tongue, notin anger, but in prayer ; when 
a father would look at me with affectionate fondness, and allow 
the tear of affection to start from his eye, as his voice would 
falter to rebuke me : and if I had throuoh life felt but the one 
hundredth part of the gratitude I now feel, the name of Walsing- 
ham would never have been stained with crime, or I branded as 
an infamous character, 

VOL. n. 


14 


158 


WALSINGHAM, 


“ I was twenty when my mother died. I was in the house, 
prepared for the event. It was strange the different feelings 
which by turns took possession of my mind : one instant I saw 
by her death the inestimable treasure I should lose ; the next, 
an avaricious feeling would overcome all affection, and I saw 
myself the sure inheritor of my father’s wealth ; the large settle- 
ment made upon my mother must devolve upon myself, and 
thus in some degree place me in security, — for I knew my 
father’s estate was not an entailed one, — he inherited his fortune 
from an uncle, and it came unshackled to him. At the last hour 
of my mother’s'^life, her reason — her mind, was as healthy as in 
perfect health : the body had not contaminated that, which seems 
a thing apart, although occasionally shaken by epilepsy, or 
weakened by long sickness or suffering. She called me to her 
bedside, bade me kneel down, and blessed me. Do not, Mr. 
Stanhope, I implore you, rob me of my only consolation by dis- 
crediting me, — I wept like a child : to her words of advice I lent 
a ready ear: I kissed the cold clammy hand which had rested 
upon my head, as I offered up a prayer, — the first, the last ever 
offered in sincerity, — that her words might be profitable to me, 
and that God would bless my dying mother. She died. I will 
be candid in my confession : I felt as if some restraint was re- 
moved, — I felt freer to act— I felt that a watchful eye was 
closed. The long pageantry of folly which swells the funeral 
of the rich took place : the hired mourners — the greatest mock- 
ery of real^Q^ who stood outside our doors dressed in the 
livery of grief, raughed at some obscene jest, or feasted on the 
funeral baked meats : — my mother was conveyed to her grave ; 
and as the coffin was slowly lowered into the vault beneath, I 
felt the heart-springs of affection burst through every restraint, 
and I wept as became a son who at that moment sincerely 
mourned his mother. 

“ My father, who had lived in fondest affection with his wife, 
felt her loss deeply. For days he scarcely spoke, and he kept 
within his park-walls for more than six months : all those who 
kindly inquired concerning him were refused admittance; the 
servants seemed to walk cautiously, lest they should disturb the 
quiet of the house ; and it became to me the most wretched, the 
most lonely of all abodes. 

“ I solicited to be sent to college ; my expulsion was a bar 
which my father’s wealth could not overleap, and I was con- 
demned to a private tutor. Here I first learnt the rudiments of 
that art which has ruined and retrieved me, — which led me into 


THE GAMESTER. 


169 


the paths of crime, and which gave me the means of satisfying 
my vicious inclinations. Here I found vice ennobled : my tutor 
hallowed gaining by enshrining it as a classical accomplishment, 
and his rapture was unbounded when he read that loaded dice 
had been discovered in the ruins of Pompeii. My inclination 
accorded but too well with his own : when my father retired to 
his room, we played backgammon ; it was for money, — and 
whenever the stakes rose, with my vehemence of temper, I in- 
variably lost. As my father allowed me an ample allowance, I 
paid my debts of honour punctually ; but I soon discovered that 
my progress in education was trifling, whilst my losses were 
excessive. 

“ The selection of this man was most unfortunate ; but he 
came well recommended, and, in all probability, had he found 
me adverse to gaming, he would have discontinued his aim, and 
turned my mind to more healthy pursuits. Neither was this his 
only failing, or the only one in which he instructed his pupil ; 
his general admiration of the sex led me, as his companion, to 
treat all with a levity ill suited to their virtues. I was now fair- 
ly in the vortex : I read only to give me greater power over the 
other sex — for fools are seldom successful, and 1 studied rather 
to defend vice than to protect virtue. Gaily now passed the 
days, in greater excitement passed the nights : I had only to ex- 
press a wish, and my subservient tutor, who guided me skilful- 
ly, whilst I appeared to lead, contributed his utmost exertion to 
serve me. 

“ My father was soon convinced of my rapid advancement. A 
new and more lively conversation ensued : the classic ground 
which I had dug up to unbury the vices of the ancients was 
of use in showing how assiduously I had studied ; and when 1 
came of age, my father regarded me as a man likely to make a 
figure in the world, and one who had lost nothing in education 
by having beefi excluded from the Universities. 

“ The tutor, who had now got me fairly in his clutches, — for 
I had given some bills, the amount of which was far beyond my 
power to repay, — proposed to me that a tour on the Continent 
would finish my education : for after I was of age, 1 had solicit- 
ed my father to retain this man, for whom, although his debtor, 
I felt a great regard. ‘ This proposition,’ he said, ‘ must come 
from you, without my being consulted : and you can j)ropose 
that I should accompany you. We can together tread the clas- 
sic ground of the Latins, and contrive to mix pleasure and study 
in the trip.’ 


160 


WALSINGHAM, 


“ The peace of 1815 had just been made secure ; the road to 
Dover was thronged by the rich and the curious, who, from the 
long war, had been kept in perfect ignorance of our neighbours 
the French ; and I own that the proposition, backed, as it was, 
by a glowing description of Italy, and the necessity of every 
man enlarging the sphere of his travels in order more complete- 
ly to eradicate the narrow notions which pervade all English 
minds, greatly contributed to strengthen my disposition. My 
father heard the request with a mixture of pleasure and of pain: 
he knew it would benefit me as a man of the world, but he felt 
how lonesome he should become without the cheerful and well- 
contested arguments which the tutor and myself invariably got 
up for his amusement, and which we had prepared in order to 
introduce witticisms, or quotations which we had carefully com- 
mitted to our memories. I think now I see that poor deceived 
old man rubbing his hands with joy, as he would say, ‘Well 
done, George ! you have got the best of that argument.’ 

“ This system of deception grew with its growth, and I do 
not hesitate to aver, that two more finished hypocrites never ex- 
isted than my tutor and myself.” 

“ He is telling the truth now,” said Testy. “ You may rely 
upon it, if he goes on as steadily as he has begun, we shall have 
a most respectable account of a young man’s progress through 
life.” 

“ I will not, as God is my judge, say one word of falsehood. 
I have broken the ground,” continued Walsingham, “and I will 
not hesitate now to make an open confession, in order, if pos- 
sible, to stand better than I do in your estimation.” 

“ Well, there’s something in that,” said Testy ; “ for you 
certainly could not stand worse than you have ever done since 
the first day I saw you. Go on and prosper ! you may yet live 
to get absolution from all the priests of the different religions 
you have followed. — Oh ! but we shall have a rare treat ! And 
I hope you will not resemble the Koran : the more one reads, 
the less satisfactory is the result. Via adhonos morest as your 
tutor taught you, — et cetera : — you know the rest.” 

We soon had obtained my father’s permission to travel ; nor 
were we long in making due preparations. I had learnt French 
sufficiently to understand it ; — ” 

“ Indeed !” ejaculated Testy : “ I never should have given 
you credit for that.” 

“ — And I now was well supplied with books which were 
calculated to amuse me by their wit, and shake the little religion 


THE GAMESTER. 


161 


I ever possessed from my mind. Amongst these, Voltaire’s 
Philosophical Dictionary was most recommended by iny tutor. 
I read — was amused ; — wit is a powerful adversary, ridicule a 
most wonderful sapper and miner: I became enamoured of the 
author, and, in loving him, soon became a convert to his doc- 
trine ; at least, I was taught to talk lightly on subjects which 
never should be lightly treated, and if I was not absolutely a 
Deist, I could scarcely be ranked as a follower of the Establish- 
ed Church. 

“ Our intention — at least, the expressed intention of my tutor, 
was to go on to Rome without any particular long stay ; but no 
sooner were we arrived in Paris, than I foresaw we were des- 
tined to remain much longer than I had anticipated. I found ray 
tutor had taken apartments by the month, and that he soon 
formed acquaintances who were destined to enrich him. But 
now his greediness to possess wealth broke out, and at once 
fixed me in a position the most derogatory to the feelings of a 
gentleman.” 

“ Gently, gently !” said Testy. 

“I maintain,” continued Walsingham, “that at that moment 
I had not entirely forfeited the name. True, I had grossly vio- 
lated the law by which that character is upheld ; but I felt as 
yet I had not forfeited the claim, for the world were ignorant of 
ray misdoings, saving my schoolboy faults, which even the most 
rigid may sometimes overlook. My tutor asked me for the mo- 
ney I owed him. You will scarcely credit it, when I tell you 
that he had won of me more than one thousand pounds, and for 
that sum I had given bills, which he had drawn, and I, after my 
attaining my majority, had accepted. I was entirely ignorant of 
these transactions, and signed my name, implicitly believing 
that these bills would never be shown against me. 

“ With all my father’s goodness, he had one fault, — at least 
in my eyes. Although when at home he gave me an elegant 
sufficiency, yet for my travels, he fixed my income at five hun- 
dred a year; the tutor was retained at his usual salary of three 
hundred a year ; the travelling expenses to be kept as a separate 
account, and paid by my father. I told my creditor how use- 
less it was to ask me for what at that moment he knew I could 
not pay : and he, moderating his demand for the whole, made 
me agree to give him two hundred a year out of my allowance ; 
to which I consented. 

“ At this time there was a young man in Paris well known, 

I am aware, to you all — it was Houghton : my tutor met him at 

14 ^ 


162 


WALSINGHAM, 


the Salon — they both played high, and both soon became inti- 
mate acquaintances. And at this lime there was a family — 
Shall I go on ?” he asked, looking at Stanhope. 

“Go on, sir,” said Stanhope; “for the faults and follies of 
both parties you have mentioned, are known to us all.” 

“I would not advert to any thing unconnected with my own 
history, but that I should appear to tell a falsehood if I did not 
mention that which you know to be the fact. Houghton was 
first enticed by my tutor to our apartments; and here first began 
my own villany. The tutor, after a lapse of some time, pressed 
me hard for more money, alleging he had lost what I had given 
him: he bade me write to my father, stating, that one night I 
had, after apparently retiring to rest, left the house and entered 
the Salon ; that there, excited by wine, I had been templed to 
gamble, and had lost about eight hundred pounds — which was 
now about the half of what my debt had increased by my tutor. 
I did it, and I received for answer, ‘ that I was perfectly incor- 
rigible, and that my imprudence could only be checked by mak- 
ing me feel the degradation to which I had subjected myself.’ — 
Give me a little water, for I am weak.” 


THE GAMESTER. 


163 


CHAPTER XVIL 


Some lime elapsed before Walsingham was sufficiently re- 
covered to continue his narrative, during which time Stanhope 
expressed his horror in unmeasured terms to Douglass concern- 
ing the gradual developement of the meanness which ever ac- 
companies a gamester’s existence. Testy, who knew the tutor 
by name, and had often met him, was ignorant until this time 
that Walsingham had been enticed into the Salon by his means. 
It was evident that the gamester’s confession was true, and like- 
wise that he required rest to enable him to continue. Douglass, 
who trembled as the story advanced, recommended leaving Wal- 
singhani to his undisturbed pillow, with John as an attendant ; 
but the wounded man heard it, and replied that he would rather 
advance a little further in his history before they took their 
leave. 

“ I know,” he said, “ that you anticipate my attempted es- 
cape ; be not afraid — I have now begun, and as you are the 
only people who could assist me at present, I am not disposed 
to forego the advantage. To satisfy you that I ^m the son of 
Sir William, I will send for my letters; but if I could be re- 
moved to my own lodgings, I should be belter able to convince 
you by numerous records, than in this miserable Cafe, how 
gradually have I sunk from affluence to poverty, and risen again 
by the very means which ruined me.” 

A consultation was held. Testy was of opinion, that now, 
as Walsingham was sincere, and that there was no danger of 
his leaving Paris, it was better at once to remove him. John 
w^as called ; but John had no such fine feelings for the person 
who had caused the death of his sister. He was asked to get 
a litter, and lend a hand to convey him home. “ I’m blessed,” 
said the frank sailor, “ if I would not sooner get him a coffin, 
and clap him in it myself. I’ll lend a hand with all my heart 
to get a litter, that’s my duty so to do ; but it’s not John Jen- 


164 


WALSINGHAM, 


kins who will ever carry that fellow, excepting to hang him at 
his journey’s end.” 

Testy, ever alert, soon found one of those useful conveyances ; 
Walsingham was placed in it, and some Frenchmen, who had 
heard how gallantly an Englishman had led the attack on the 
Louvre, volunteered to convey him home. 

The exorbitant demand of the master of the Cafe was paid, 
and Walsingham by nine at night was safely placed in his own 
bed ; whilst John requested permission to attend upon him, 
promising that he would never appear in his sight, but only 
watch that he did not escape through the door. The party now 
returned to the Hotel Chatham : it was agreed not to say one 
word of the communication which had been made, as it would 
be of no possible service suddenly crushing the hopes of Ame- 
lia, when at the very end something might transpire to restore 
Walsingham to the world. 

Testy, on leaving the hotel, went directly to the abode of Sir 
William. It was answered, that no one could see him, as he 
was so weak as to make his death almost certain if he was at 
all agitated: there was, however, some hope that he might sur- 
vive a week or more. Testy asked to see the servant, and an 
old gray-headed person soon announced himself as that person. 
Testy’s manner was a passport to conversation ; he knew the 
world and its manners well, and soon gleaned from the old butler 
that he had been in the family before the only child was born 
— that he should know him again — and on hearing that he was 
seriously wounded, (Testy had stretched a point there, in order 
to make sure of the old servant’s attendance,) he at once con- 
sented to meet Testy at eight o’clock the following morning, 
and, under pretence of buying something for his master, say if 
the gamester was or was not the man he assumed to be. 

Stanhope never-betrayed one word of the secret even to his 
wife ; a virtue which one of the greatest of generals could not 
withstand. He saw that his favourite sister was blindly, rashly 
in love with a man whom she believed perfection, for he it was 
who advised Douglass against gaming. Mrs. Douglass had 
never betrayed the levity of his conversation to Amelia, and the 
girl saw in the man who had bravely staked his life for that of a 
stranger, a hero of romance. Suddenly to turn her from the 
object of her love. Stanhope knew to be impossible; for a girl 
of her ardent imagination would have considered it the height of 
weakness to surrender an object she loved, because that object 
was condemned against her better judgment. It had been agreed 


THE GAMESTER. 


165 


to meet at ten o’clock the following morning; but at eight, 
much to the astonishment of Walsingham, Testy entered his 
room. 

“ Walsingham,” he began, “ I have known you many years, 
and have despised you, because I knew the manner by which 
you lived. I will not, however, be beat out of the theory I 
have ever held — that no man is so thoroughly bad but that he 
may be reclaimed. Last night you began your confessions ; and 
you had three priests to give you absolution, and all were will- 
ing to be reconciled to a repentant sinner. You said you were 
the son of Sir William Walsingham; let me introduce you to 
an old friend.” Here he beckoned to the old servant, who, 
when he saw the wounded man, instantly recognised him, and 
wiping a tear from his eye, said, 

“Master William, I bless the day, for I see you again, al- 
though wounded. Speak to me, sir, for I have news you will 
not be sorry to hear, or I to tell.” 

“ How is my father, Thomas ?” said Walsingham, his lips 
quivering with emotion, his voice faltering as he spoke. 

“Ill, sir, very ill ; but it will rejoice his heart to know, that 
the first words I heard uttered by his son, was an inquiry after 
him.” 

“I say, old boy,” began Testy, “you are one of the right 
sort ! do you think his father will see him again?” and he gave 
the old fellow a touch of the elbow, which nearly qualified him 
for the undertaker. 

“See him again !” said the old man; “only let him get up 
and come with me this instant, and I’ll forfeit my life if by 
eleven o’clock he is not only forgiven, his faults forgotten, but 
his name reinstated in his father’s will.” 

“ Don’t be in too great a hurry, old gentleman,” said Testy ; 
“ the better part of valour, we are told, is discretion, and in this 
case discretion will do more than hurry. You must tell Sir 
William that his son is arrived ; mention his being hurt, not 
wounded, in the row yesterday ; say that you have seen him, 
— don’t forget his first request, — and when you have prepared 
the way, we shall be enabled to remove him to his father’s abode. 
He will make full reparation for all his faults ; you’ll be made 
peace-maker general to the family; and if the old boy does not 
leave you a handsome legacy, and the son double it, he ought to 
go to the devil, and take his darling boy as his companion.” 

“ I never think of reward, sir, when my heart tells me I am 
doing what is right and proper. I remember the day when his 


166 


WALSINGHAM, 

poor dear mother placed her hand upon his head, as he knelt by 
her bedside, and blessed him. I little thought then, that but a 
year was to expire before he would leave his father’s house al- 
most for ever.” 

“ Tell me,” said Walsingham, raising himself up, “ tell me 
the truth, Thomas. After I had left him, and he had discarded 
me, did he ever speak of me kindly, or remember me affection- 
ately ?” 

“ Ay, not once, but always. But his temper was ungovern- 
able ; at times he would rave against the ingratitude of his son, 
who could thus follow a life of pleasure, and leave him to all the ' 
pains of old age without a companion. You know the step he 
took, and I know who would benefit most if he died without 
being reconciled to you.” 

“ Thomas,” said Walsingham, “ I have had full leisure to re- 
pent my ingratitude, and it has been sincere. If he will receive 
me without the upbraidings 1 deserve, I will be there to-day ; 
but if his seeing me would excite his anger in the melancholy 
state he is now in, I would rather he died leaving me the shil- 
ling I expect to find in his will, than that his life should be 
shortened one moment even through a reconciliation.” 

“If you are not humbugging us now. Master Walsingham,” 
said Testy, “ you have stUl one drop of the gentleman and the 
Christian in your veins ; and I don’t despair of seeing the past 
forgotten, and the future brilliant. Come, old boy ! you had 
better be off*, — time creeps on, and we have something else to 
arrange between this and noon.” 

“Then, good-by’e. Master William, for the present! Before 
the sun goes down this day, I hope to see you by your father’s 
bedside, never to leave him again in this world.” 

“ Mr. Testy,” said Walsingham, “ you, who ever pursued 
me with unrelenting hatred, have now proved my best friend. 
There is one other favour to the many you have done in this 
one act yet remaining. You know of my engagement to 
Amelia Stanhope — you know her sister’s history : liow can I 
overcome obstacles which appear to me insurmountable?” 

“We shall see as your history goes on. I see in you al- 
ready a man aware of the mischief he has committed : this is 
the first step to repentance. I would rather see every man 
happy, than one miserable ; but I have an awful distrust of hu- 
man nature, and never pledge myself to any one. Do you 
continue to-day as you began yesterday, and even Stanhope 


THE GAMESTER. 167 

might be reconciled, and you accepted in the only manner that 
reparation can be made.” 

It was ten o’clock, and Stanhope, anxious not to lose a mo- 
ment, had forced Douglass, who appeared rather unwilling to 
attend, to the door. John let them in, and made his report, 
that he had reconnoitred the enemy’s vessel, and that it was 
still in the harbour. Stanhope never offered his hand ; but 
Douglass, who somehow felt his fate bound up with that of his 
plunderer, gave his, which was received with a more fervent 
squeeze than he had ever experienced. 

“ Come,” said Testy, “ we have little time to lose, and I 
want to know how the world wags outside : go on with your 
confessions, W^lsingham, and I’ll give you some wine and 
water if you require any.” 

This sudden change in Testy’s manner — the familiarity of 
the address, and the readiness expressed to oblige, struck Stan- 
hope forcibly. The party sat round the bedside ; and John, 
who was at the door, overheard every word. 

“ My father,” began Walsingham, “ having refused me the 
money I solicited to pay my tutor, received from me a letter 
which I have ever since regretted. The tutor persuaded me 
that an only son might do any thing, and not lose his parent’s 
affection. Accordingly I wrote this unjustifiable letter, threat- 
ening to remain abroad, and to consult my own pleasure and 
convenience. His answer was short, and in these words : — 

“ ‘ Dear William, — ^I received your letter. When you 
come home and ask my pardon for the insult you have fixed 
upon me, I may forgive you. In the mean time, I shall not 
send you one farthing of money, nor shall I honour your bills. 
You may suit yourself with another companion, as I have dis- 
charged your tutor. 

“ ‘ Your affectionate father, 

“ ‘ William Walsingham.’ 

“ I placed this production in the hands of my companion, 
and in return read a letter, just as short and as much to the 
point, to my tutor, in which his salary was paid up to a month 
in advance, money given to pay his way back to England, and 
in the event of my non-compliance to return, he was dismissed 
from his attendance on me. I now felt that I had gone too far, 
and would most willingly have retraced my steps ; but my 
tutor, who was the devil in disguise, overcame all my prudent 


168 


WALSINGHAM, 


resolutions. ‘You will never want money,’ he said; ‘I will 
teach you how to make it. Your father, when he finds you de- i 
termined and able to remain abroad, will be the first to make i 
you comfortable. Besides which, you could not now return : I 
have placed one of your bills in the hands of a Frenchman, ? 
who will arrest you if you attempt to move. I could not help 
it ; I wanted money, and I negotiated your bill.’ 

“Unaccustomed to the world and its ways, easily worked 
upon, — for my pride and self-sufficiency rendered me the ready 
tool of the tutor, — I consented to be the blind to cover the eyes 
of others. My name and rank placed me above suspicion ; I 
was to ask people to my house, — play was to be introduced, — 
the plunder was to be shared : on these agreements being ful- 
filled, the bills would be cancelled on my paying two-thirds of 
the whole, an easy and independent living would be obtained, 
and William Walsingham, independent of his father, might go 
where he listed. 

“ My tutor now came forth in his proper colours : he taught J 
me how to secure a dice, he showed me the use of the doctors, 
and, lastly, gave me certain wealth in the despatches. We in- 
vented a code of signals for whist,* by which the suit we most 
desired to be led was made known without a chance of disco- 
very; and the questions put to the boy who was advertised as 
possessing ‘second-sight’ were not more ingenious than our 1 
code. There was no game at which we could not deceive. At * 
ecarle, mechanical cards made the turning the king a certainty ; 
and many a man have I seen examine the pack, and own that ; 
luck would overcome the best play. 

“ For some time we reaped an abundant harvest — our ex- ^ 
penses rose with the ruin of our victims, until one day, when j 
by ill luck we invited a young French nobleman, who had be- J 
come possessed of a large sum of money by the death of his I 

wife, who was an Englishwoman. With him came another i 
Frenchman of high descent, — if illegitimate children could take i 
rank. We dined at my lodgings: of course all the luxuries of 
Paris were placed before us — the elite of French cookery, the 
choicest dishes of the Rocher were upon our table. Every 
subject of conversation was tried, — but cards were scrupulously j 
avoided. We sat long : my tutor was temperate, myself mo- j 

*The method referred to, is an alphabetical arrangement: thus — if you I 
want a club led, you take your own card from your hand with the thumb i 
and first finger; if a diamond, with the thumb and two fingers ; if a heart, / 
with three fingers ; and if a spade, with four fingers. 




THE GAMESTER. 


169 


derate ; but the French, led on to talk of their great and glo- 
rious conquests, soon began to sing those spirit-stirring songs 
of De Berenger : then the blood rose — fire was added to the 
flame — they became excited beyond prudence, and when the 
tutor, with a knowledge of human nature never surpassed, al- 
lowed the two heroes to dwindle from excitement into lethargy 
by remaining silent himself, the evening was voted dull, and 
cards asked for by our visiters. This was the point always 
aimed at, — to make the proposition come from the company, 
and then to give an unwilling assent. 

“We succeeded beyond our most sanguine expectations. 
Ecarte was played, my tutor always siding with the French- 
man, who played against me, and easily communicating the 
hand of my unwary antagonist. We began at five francs, and 
soon rose the stakes to hundreds. The evening finished; one 
of our company had lost about sixteen hundred napoleons ; the 
other, only winged, hardly wounded, was minus about one hun- 
dred and fifty. The temper of the greatest loser increased with 
his loss; he became frantic when he lost his last heavy stake, 
and dared to utter an unknown truth in the assertion that he 
had been cheated. We dismissed him into the street, facili- 
tating his exit by the application of a foot. His friend espous- 
ed his cause, and made an attempt to resent the insult ; but, 
being rather drunk, he slid down the well-polished stairs, and 
was soon, with his enraged companion, retracing his steps to 
his own home. 

“ No sooner were they gone, than we held a conversation as 
to the best mode of proceeding. Neither had paid, and the 
money made so lar^e a sum that it was impossible to give up 
our riches without a struggle, — and gamesters are ready bullies. 
My mentor soon made up his mind to insist on payment ; for 
it was obvious, if we gave up our claim, that the accusation of 
cheating wmuld have been well founded. We had nothing for 
it but to brave it out. 

“ The young Frenchman, who possessed the most money, 
very prudently thought it not worth while to risk his life for 
one hundred and fifty napoleons, and paid that sum the follow- 
ing morning. This made us secure, as it was a proof he con- 
sidered that he had fairly lost the money, and consequently we 
stood upon high and secure ground. My tutor now urged his 
claim ; — he was positively refused : he talked of the circum- 
stance in all public places, insulted the Frenchman by calling 
him a coward and a vagabond, backed up his words by spitting 

VOL. II. 15 


170 


WALSINGHAM, 


in his face, and very unceremoniously placed a cane with a 
slight impetus across his victim’s shoulders. 

“There is a point past which no one can submit: he sent a 
challenge — my tutor refused it until the money was paid : it 
was ultimately agreed to be paid on the ground, and early on 
that day week we were punctual to our appointment in the Bois 
de Boulogne. 

“ It was the first lime I had ever been called upon to witness 
a duel ; but the second of the Frenchman was an adept in these 
affairs. On our arrival on the ground, the money was paid over 
to my friend, who placed it in his pocket. A barrier duel was 
decided upon, thirty paces being the outside limit, and ten the 
inside. The pistol was not loaded when I approached the man 
who had been kindly recommended to my father as a religious, 
well-disposed person, and in every respect qualified for the 
sacred profession he intended to follow. I took his hand; it was 
as cool and as steady as if Death was not abroad, but sleeping 
with the rest of his comrades. I asked him if I could be of any 
service to him in the event of an accident occurring : he replied 
that he intended to shoot his adversary, and that he never missed 
his man. I urged him to think that a chance shot, even to use 
his own expression, and most particularly applicable in the 
present instance, might kill the devil : he replied, he had no 
fears for the event ; begged me to look carefully that the caps 
were good, and the charge of powder reduced to the small mea- 
sure I should find in the case ; and stopping the speech I had 
begun, — for I still retained a religious awe of death, especially 
when courted, and when the man who had to defend his life or 
take that of his adversary was decidedly in the wrong, — ‘ My 
dear fellow,’ he replied, ‘ you are young yet : men who follow 
our profession must never flinch, their chance of security is in 
their known readiness to fight; and I have not been cracking 
eggs at forty paces every morning of my life, to fear my missing 
a man, even if he was as feather-edged as a penknife, or as slim 
and as round as a piece of stubble.’ 

“ I loaded the pistols as he desired : it hardly appeared twelve 
grains of powder ; the ball was wrapped in a greased piece of 
linen, and was rammed down with great difficulty: and, I own, 
at that moment I would rather have taken the place of my tutor 
than have witnessed the scene. I took his hand before I gave 
him the pistol : he smiled, and said, ‘ I am much too bad to be 
killed : do not make me make a fool of myself; there — tell them 
I am ready ; the sooner we begin the better, for I hate suspense.’ 


THE GAMESTER. 


171 


“ There was a conscious rectitude about the Frenchman ; he 
spoke quickly to his friend, and when he shook hands with him, 
he rose his head proudly towards his adversary, and said, quite 
loud enough to reach my ears, ‘ I will not retract a syllable ; I 
am sure they were both concerned.’ 

“ The French second, who was a general of high repute, ad- 
vanced towards me and asked if I would explain the regulations 
to be observed. I left it to him ; and as my tutor understood 
French belter than myself, there was no occasion for an inter- 
preter. ‘ Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘ you will use your own discretion, 
and fire when you like. The party firing will receive his ad- 
versary’s shot from the place from which the first person fired : 
you may advance to the inside barrier if you like, before you, 
but no closer. Am I understood ?’ 

“ It was more a form than any thing requisite, for the whole 
thing had been explained before by myself: each party an- 
swered, yes, and the word was given, ‘ Commencez,^ The 
Frenchman advanced about four paces, and as he stopped, the 
tutor fired. Tliere was no doubt that the shot hit, but it was not 
fatal ; the Frenchman recovered the shock, and taking a steady 
deliberate aim, shot my friend right through the heart. He 
jumped upright — a muscular exertion before death, and dropped 
as dead as if lingering disease had worn out nature. 

'‘1 had now to act. Some police, who very kindly never 
interfered, stepped up : an account was taken of the transaction ; 
the money, which I had anticipated as my own, was placed in 
the hands of the proper authorities ; every article of his property 
was sealed up ; and I, as in duty bound, attended the funeral of 
the man, enacting chief mourner over him, who had taught me 
disobedience to my parents, had swerved me from the straight- 
forward path of honour, — who had initiated me in villany, and 
who was so distrustful of his pupil, that he even had pocketed 
the plunder before he died.” 

“ It’s all true,” said Testy : “ I went to see the ground four 
hours after the thief was shot. — Go on.” 


172 


WALSINGHAM, 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


“ It was after this unfortunate, or, perhaps, fortunate duel, 
that I followed Houghton to Spa. — There is no occasion to 
dwell upon events which succeeded his ruin. I was the principal 
winner of his fortune ; I urged him to forgery. He was so in- 
nocent of the world’s w^ays, that I played him double or quits 
six times running : I used the ‘ despatches,’ — won, of course, 
and left him in despair, a ruined man, and one ready to commit 
any villany. 

“ I then crossed over to England, having assumed the name 
of Cavendish before I arrived at Spa. It was Houghton’s money 
which enabled me to publish the lie, that I had inherited a for- 
tune. In London I was little known ; but still my rumoured 
wealth gave me an opportunity of frequenting one of the most 
celebrated establishments in Europe. I there saw that no situ- 
ation in life, however high by birth or honourable by descent, 
would be a barrier strong enough to resist temptations to commit 
dishonourable actions. The gamester knows no nice distinc- 
tions ; — the excitement of play overcomes all restraint — the greedy 
avariciousness of wealth grows stronger as the drain becomes 
continued, until, at last, to have the means of procuring the ex- 
citement a dishonourable action is resorted to, the word of honour 
violated, and foul play hazarded. I am not worse than my 
neighbours, Mr. Testy; many of higher birth than myself have 
done meaner things.” 

“I beg you will not mention them,” interrupted Testy; “ for 
I know that on one occasion a man of high rank won continually 
of the bank, and was as regularly paid ; on the third or fourth 
night he lost, wrote a cheque for the amount, left the room with 
some little character still lingering behind him : the clerks had 
hardly arrived at their stations the next day, before an order was 
sent, if not personally delivered, that the cheque should not be 
paid ; and thus the winner was balked of his expectancy. You 
need not, Mr. Walsingham, rummage your brains to tell us 


THE GAMESTER. 


173 


anecdotes of men who by this cursed infatuation have fallen 
from the summit of grandeur to the lowest depth of infamy ; or 
of youths who, having begun at school to learn tricks at cards, 
continued their tricks in after life, making honour a by-word. 
Go on with your history or confession, for you are now coming 
to the part wdiich to me is most interesting, as about this time I 
lost sight of you.” 

“ It required a large expenditure to keep myself in the situa- 
tion I had usurped. But gamesters have no income ; their 
principal is a floating capital, sometimes larger, sometimes 
smaller — decreasing gradually until the last throw of the dice 
renders them paupers. They go through all the changes of 
post-obits on a father's life ; they forestall pensions by selling 
the reversion; they borrow money which they never repay; 
until at last, their companions get tired of their company — they 
are rejected by their more fortunate, or perhapse more adept 
associates, and they slink away to some obscurity, where they 
hasten death by continual intoxication. 

“ Some there are who swindle in another way— men who 
have gained a notoriety from dress, or a peculiar style, voted un- 
common, and therefore enviable. These men introduce the 
young and inexperienced to their tailors or their carriage-builders. 
The tradesman is declared the only one in the modern Babel 
who can cut a coat or build a chariot. A large sum is demand- 
ed, because the article can only be procured at the shop ; the 
overplus goes to the unworthy fellow who recommended the 
too credulous youth ; and thus some w'ho make the greatest 
show are in reality the poorest, and are entirely upheld by be- 
ing a species of commission agents. This is common to both 
sexes. 

“ Here I saw how valuable was a little character. The meaner 
gamester sheltered himself behind the untarnished reputation of 
his friend, and thus, as it were, stood unseen whilst he picked 
a pocket. Then came the little whisper of detraction ; it grew 
louder and louder as the public tongue sported with the charac- 
ter, until at last the Surrey side of the water, the Fleet, New- 
gate, or the Marshalsea, received as inmates men who had re- 
velled in every luxury, and who, from shaking their elbows at 
play, shiver out existence in a gaol. 

“ I was near Worcester,” (here Jack came more into the 
room,) “ when I heard that my father, who could no longer sup- 
port his lonely situation, had, in a fit of passion, married his 
housekeeper. I thought 1 would be revenged upon him, and 

15 ^ 


174 


WALSfNGHAM, 


marry a girl of low life, and with her drive to his den and show 
him the future Lady Walsingham dressed as a country peasant. 
I fixed upon one young and handsome: I made advances with 
the greatest caution, and with, I swear, the most honourable of 
all foolish intentions. I gave her dresses — I met her often ; in 
an unguarded moment she fell : — I was satiated — took her to 
Dover — left her, and returned to France.” 

“ Give me my sister back, you infernal villain !” said Jack, 
springing forward. “ She was my own sister, and you ruined 
her — left her ; and my master saw her die mad — mad for you ! 
— By God, I swear — ” 

Here old Testy interfered, holding back the sailor. “ Swear 
not at all, and let that poor wretch unburthen his mind. What 
is done, is done : can he recall the dead — can he give you back 
your sister ? Stand back : I honour your feelings, but I despise 
your rashness.” 

“ Ah, it is well,” said Jack, “ for gentlemen to talk who ne- 
ver have known a sister’s ruin I” 

“Stop,” said Stanhope, “nor make the scene more painful 
than it is. Walsingham avoided, with gentlemanly feelings, the 
narrative or mention of that which now has come stronger from 
the mouth of a menial. — I know all that you can feel — I have 
felt it much more painfully than you could feel ; for education 
and refinement add a pang to pain which ignorance and vulga- 
rity shield from the lowly. How is it, Mr. Walsingham, that 
you did not recognise my other sister, and avoid again inflicting 
a pang upon our family ?” 

“ I had never seen her in my life,” replied Walsingham, 
“ neither had I ever seen your sister Louisa, until I met her at 
Spa : Houghton was intimate with the family, but I never pass- 
ed the threshold. As for this poor girl, whose fate for the first 
lime I have heard this moment, would I could have averted it ! 
but my poverty increased as my character grew more suspected, 
and I was obliged to withdraw the little annuity 1 had promised, 
and for some time paid her. I can yet make some reparation. 

I must shortly become, comparatively speaking, a wealthy man ; 
and, as I live, I will do all that a man can do to repair the in- 
jury to the family. — Let me go on without interruption. Before 
long, I shall be summoned to the bedside of my dying father; 
and I would go there with a conscience as light as sincere re- 
pentance can make it. 

“ Disgusted at this act of my father, who sought in the em-' 
brace of his wife a child to whom he could leave his wealth to 


THE GAMESTER. 


175 


the certain disinheritance of myself, I wrote a letter, which I 
penned in the excitement of passion, and in which I lavished 
the most unqualified abuse, declaring my intention of never 
again seeing one who had so shamefully used me, nor of darken- 
ing the doors of a house disgraced by the elevation of a cook to 
the title of Lady Walsingham. I received a letter, which is 
here ; it is my father on paper — the way he always spoke, the 
manner in which he always conveyed his sentiments. 

‘ My dear Boy, 

“ ‘ Do as you like, — stay abroad and make a bad charac- 
ter worse — continue a swindler ; but remember, my consent is 
to be asked before you darken my doorway. 

‘ Affectionately, 

“ ‘ Your Father.’ ” 

“ When a man marries to annoy his child, he not unfreqiient- 
ly makes himself supremely miserable. My father soon found 
that he elevated to an equal a woman who could be only tole- 
rated as a menial. There is no tyrant, it is said, like an eman- 
cipated slave; and no sooner had the cook found herself install- 
ed in her new dignity, than she began, as she elegantly termed 
it, to weed the kitchen-garden. Every servant was discharged 
but the old butler. They never relished the charity promotion, 
and could not obey one who a week before had sat at their own 
table ; bickerings arose above and below stairs, the house was 
turned into a hotbed of dissension, and my poor father found 
himself as much under authority as he had formerly held his 
new partner. 

“ The news of all this unquiet reached me through the foot- 
man, who obtained a place in a family travelling abroad ; and in 
the moment of exultation over my father, I wrote him an ironi- 
cal letter, congratulating him upon his pleasant prospects as he 
neared his grave, and gave a flourishing account of several old 
gentlemen whose ‘ decent limbs’ had been stretched by their 
new wives, who chuckled over prosperity obtained by the death 
of their old husbands. The letter was unanswered ; and I be- 
came poorer and poorer, until I actually was driven to ask cha- 
rity of the very woman I had insulted. That charily was not 
refused ; and, strange as it may appear, that sum of money was 
the means of reinstating me in affluence. It was five pounds, 
sent to me here : I turned it into francs, and looked at all I had 
in the world. I was then a perfect adept in cheating; I could 


176 


WALSINGHAM, 


manage the mechanical cards at blind hookey so as to insure 
success ; and chance threw a young gentleman in my way — ” 

“ What !” said Testy in some surprise, “can you cheat at 
blind hookey 

“You can cheat at any game,” replied Walsingham; “and 
with mechanical cards, you can cut a high or a low card exact- 
ly at your pleasure. My victim was young, it is true, but I was 
poor, and conscience and myself had grown into good fellow- 
ship. I met him in the street ; he had slipped into the kennel, 
and I was ever ready to assist a gentleman and to make a new 
acquaintance — my old ones and myself had long since separa- 
ted. I saw the young man to his house— r-calied of course the 
next day to inquire after him, — dined with him the day follow- 
ing — talked over the danger of gaming — told an infinity of anec- 
dotes, all calculated to alarm the youngster from public play, 
and, after a bottle of cool claret, allowed myself to be drawn 
into a game at blind hookey.” 

“Gamesters such as I had become always travel like consta- 
bles, with every article about them to insure the capture of their 
prey. False dice are not unfrequently carried in a toothpick- 
case ; and I once saw a case with two lids of the above des- 
cription which held fair dice, loaded dice, and ‘ despatches,’ on 
the one side, — whilst the other contained a few quills cut into 
shape, and which had often stood sentinels on the sideboard of 
a coffee-room. It required but little precaution never to make a 
mistake ; for on the lid to be opened in company, the arms neat- 
ly engraved showed the side. 

“ I had mechanical cards, dice, and ‘ doctors’ about me : I 
easily substituted mine for his, by drawing his attention to some- 
thing apparently moving in a corner of the room, and before I 
left him I was worth twenty pounds, and carried all my fortune 
in my pocket — as many officers carry all their gold on their 
shoulders. 1 took good care again to call to offer revenge, but 
declared, after we were once quits, nothing should induce me 
to play above five francs, a sum so insignificant as scarcely to 
be called ‘betting’ by men of my fortune. He agreed to dine 
with me ; and 1 procured the assistance of a very respectable 
young Frenchman, who had been ejected from Frascati’s, as 
croupier, because he mistook some money of his master’s for 
his own. 

“We dined together. All conversation on play was avoided 
until the victim introduced it himself. The Frenchman de- 
clared all games of chance bad but hazard, and our visiter soon 


THE GAMESTER. 


177 


fell into the trap most ingeniously open for him. We began very 
low, increasing our stakes. I, as was agreed, lost at first, then 
recovered a little, and at the close of the evening was a winner 
of about ten pounds. Now came the great hit : I was in and 
held the box, — I was the winner from both, and I agreed to 
play them double or quits five times running, making a kind of 
virtue of a theft, and declaring myself unwilling to walk off with 
a penny of my young friend’s money. It was instantly agreed to 
by my visiter, but strenulously refused by the Frenchman, who 
declared that five times was no chance at all, as he had often- 
times thrown in eight or ten mains. I, of course, yielded to 
the hint, and proposed eight times ; which being considered as 
a certainty by one, and scarcely sufficient by the other, was ul- 
timately agreed to. 

“ I always threw rather violently ; and having at the time 
proposed fair boxes and fair dice, it became requisite to change 
the latter. My companion, the Frenchman, was prepared with 
his tooth-pick-case : I saw when he was ready, and calling ‘ se- 
ven,’ threw both dice off the table in the direction of the French- 
man : he picked them up and returned me the ‘despatches.’ I 
called ‘seven’ for the eight times running, and of course, won : 
I then managed the same manoeuvre to get back the proper 
dice, and succeeded. I declared 1 would no longer run the 
risk of doubling the stake, which had grown to the sum of one 
thousand two hundred and eighty pounds. I spun the dice on 
the table in order to convince myself that they were not loaded, 
and I received a cheque from this gentleman, then about twenty- 
three years of age, condoling with him on his bad fortune, and 
recommending him to dine with me the following day. He ac- 
cepted this, and would have complied with it — ” 

“ — Only, interrupted Testy, “he met me, told me of his 
loss, and I — as I recommended another gentleman who played 
on a systeni — recommended him to be content with the first 
loss, and not risk his money, temper, and reputation by another 
attempt to repair the injury''* 

“ There is no particular friendship amongst gamesters,” con- 
tinued Walsingham. “ No sooner was he clear of the house, 
than the Frenchman declared he was entitled to half the win- 
nings. This was impossible, and, after much altercation, we 
very nearly quarrelled, until, as if preconcerted, — for we both 
made the remark together, ‘ That when rogues fell out, honest 
men got their due,’ — we agreed that he should receive five hun- 
dred and eighty pounds, and that the remainder should be mine. 


178 


WALSINGHAM, 


We negotiated the cheque the next day, made the above divi- 
sion of the spoil ; the Frenchman retired to another quarter of 
Paris, and I, dressed out in gentlemanly attire, once more fre- 
quented the Salon. 

“ I was received but coldly ; but I disregarded all hints and 
inuendoes : I had become hardened in vice, and I walked about 
the rooms, certainly not overburthened by friends, but constantly 
watched by some, as I watched for others. I played; but when 
I did, I was generally unsuccessful : but as I sat at the table 
every night and did play, I was invited to the dinners, and there 
kept a most vigilant look-out for new-comers. I met many. 
Some came with the quick glance of curiosity : those were my 
men. Others, accustomed to the scene nightly witnessed, seem- 
ed to consider the invitation to dinner as a right, and being 
practitioners themselves, were more likely to pursue any game 
I might start: these men I avoided. Lastly came the young 
man fresh from college, wise in his own conceit, believing him- 
self competent to face the world and all its iniquities, — pleased 
at being called a man, whose knowledge was not sufficient to 
guide him through a city, or extricate him from a difficulty : to 
such flattery was the best lure. They were easily known by 
the careless risk of their money — their increase of stakes on 
losing, their fear of the contrary in success — their continued ad- 
miration of their persons in the glass, and the insolent buffoonery 
of disguising the voice which God had given them, by lisping 
words scarcely intelligible. Flattery won them, and I was en- 
riched. When I say, enriched, I mean that T always had suffi- 
cient to pay for these rooms, live when prey was near me hand- 
somely, dress as becomes a gentleman, and independent in all 
but conscience. 

“I was now swimming with the tide, which swept me along 
clear of rocks, in which many of my companions were wrecked. 
It was true that I could not land in safety amidst those whose 
honourable names made the shore inviting, neither did I glide 
down unmolested by an inward monitor who long since had re- 
signed the helm to a more indifferent pilot; but I was in com- 
parative affluence, and consequently more adverse than ever to 
any reconciliation with my father. 

“ Once again I received a letter from him. Years had al- 
tered him : the fire of his heart was almost quenched. Again 
he was a widower — again a desolate old man : he wrote a letter 
which might have moved a worse heart than my own.” 

“ There are not many of that kind adrift,” grunted Testy. 


THE GAMESTER. 


179 


“Instead of upbraiding me with my want of common affec- 
tion — instead of rebuking me for my wanton insults, he excused 
me in accusing himself ; to his second marriage he attributed 
my estrangement ; and after again and again recapitulating his 
own fault, he implored me to return to solace him in his old 
age, — he offered me an independence, a total oblivion of the 
past, and affluence for the future. 

“ It happened that I received this letter the very day after I 
had met Mr. Douglass ; and feeling confident that I should soon 
become independent without assistance from my father, wrote 
back a cold refusal to return, and added insult to injury, by say- 
ing that I was well aware the marriage settlement money must 
become mine, and that sooner or later I should inherit it. I 
finished by saying that I hoped, during the years he had parted 
with me, he had not allowed my favourite dog to starve, as he 
kindly intended me to do. 

“ To this I received a short letter, saying, that he had done 
all a father could do to seek reconciliation with his son, and that 
he implored God to forgive me, as he had forgiven me, and that 
I might turn from my wickedness and live. 1 tossed the letter 
into the fire, and remarked to a friend of mine whom you met 
here the other day, that old men invariably tried to make up for 
a life of bitterness by a drop of cordial ; and that the most 
hardened sinners were averse at the last hour to throw away a 
chance of salvation, and made a moment’s repentance for thirty 
years of crime. 

“ The count was much too wise a man to allow me to cool 
over my folly : we had Douglass in our net, and I was mesh- 
ing a golden draught of fish. I promised to introduce him to 
Douglass in order the more completely to ruin him, for I will 
be candid now. Gamesters never feel for the misfortunes of 
those they plunder. We have often read, that there is some- 
thing in the misfortunes of others which is not displeasing to 
their best friends ; but the ruin of a man whose fortune passes 
to the gamester, excites not the smallest compassion, not the 
slightest remorse. 

“ It is now, after having slightly mentioned the heavier inci- 
dents of my life, that I come to this last scene. It is needless, 
perhaps, relating that I took an active part in the revolution- 
why I cannot tell : for men like myself, although obliged occa- 
sionally to act the bully, and not unfrequently to risk their lives 
as the highwayman does for the plunder of the man with whom 


180 


WALSINGHAM, 


he accidentally meets, are much averse to public broils ; and 
when the city is in commotion, they generally remain quiet. 

“ I have told how early in life 1 was initiated into mischief, 
and how sedulously I followed the wrong path ; but I have yet 
to mention one mode of making money, which perhaps you 
will discredit, and yet, after the candid confession I have made, 
I may be entitled to some belief. I have had gentlemen, men 
like myself, of birth, of good connexion — nay, of actual wealth, 
who had become so infatuated with the love of play,' that they, 
without any reason, have become sharpers, and have paid me 
handsomely for my experience, and attended my school of edu- 
cation at a price I will not mention : with the knowledge thus 
obtained, and by long practice^ in seclusion these men have 
plundered their most intimate friends, attributing to fortune what 
was due to science. Their names I must keep a secret, or I 
should be guilty of greater perfidy than in any act of my life ; 
but beware of that man who, whilst he reprobates public play, 
entices you first by small stakes, and then gradually increases 
them as he perceives the wine to operate, and the spirits to be 
excited. 


THE GAMESTER. 


181 


CHAPTER XIX. 


“I EXPECT my father’s servant soon,” resumed Walsing- 
ham ; “ but I have yet time to inform you of my determination. 
But what new excitement is this ? I fear the revolution has 
but begun.” Testy left the room as the approaching noise 
grew louder and louder : he had no fears for his life, for he was 
well known in Paris, and the English had grown in the French 
estimation. He was absent but a short time, when he gave, 
in explanation of the riot, the well-known and oft-told expedition 
to Rambouillet : the noise was nothing but a complication of 
shouts ; there was no enemy in Paris, and in an hour the 
city would appear deserted. 

“Last night,” said Walsingham, “ 1 invested my whole for- 
tune in the French funds : they are even now under fifty ; con- 
fidence will be restored in a week, and I mistake much if by this 
day month they are not at eighty. I will now place every 
farthing in the hands of Mr. Testy and Mr. Stanhope, to repay 
to the people mentioned in this paper the sums set against their 
names. I have, as far as I am able, calculated even the in- 
terest of the money they lost to me. I ask you only to wait one 
month more in Paris, to satisfy yourselves that I am the son 
of Sir William Walsingham, to pay my debts, and if you 
cannot forgive, at least to pity me. 

“ To you, Captain Stanhope, I have much to say in extenua- 
tion of the insult offered to your sister. I met her the mistress 
of a man who, I knew, intended to desert her. I own I fol- 
lowed her ; but make some excuses for the enticement which 
provoked my conduct. 

“ To you, Jenkins, I cannot make any reparation equal to 
your loss ; but I will do all 1 can for the future.” 

“ I’m not to be humbugged like these gentlemen,” said Jack ; 
“ if you are inclined to serve me, this is how it can be done : I 
know the north star from a cabbage-stalk, and the sun and moon 
from the admiral’s poop-lights ; I can navigate a ship as well as 

VOL. ii. 16 


182 


walsingham, 


most men who throw a piece of wood overboard, and walk 
alongside of it to see how fast the ship sails. I want to do 
something for myself, and not be a burthen to Captain Stan- 
hope, who has placed me to do my duty where I’m not accus- 
tomed to do it. Can you make me captain of a collier ? — if 
you can, do it ; then I shall always sleep on board a ship, and, 

I hope, die on board a ship ; for, to tell you the truth, I don’t 
like this shore-going rig at all, and my legs don’t feel at home 
in these sliding gunter leather buckets.” 

“ I call God to witness — ” began Walsingham. 

“ Gently, gently,” said Testy, “ and mind your steerage, as 
Jack says,” 

“ — That I will, before the sun goes down, take some mea- 
sure to insure you your request; and, in addition, I will settle 
upon you one hundred pounds a year from this moment.” 

“ I won’t touch your hand,” said Jack, “ for 1 should feel 
cold if I did : but I thank you, and now I relieve myself from 
my watch ; but if you had not done what you have done, you 
or John Jenkins would never have walked out of this cursed 
outlandish place alive. I’m off now to look after our craft ; 
and if she’s not blocked up, I’ll get her afloat and down to the 
hotel.” Saying this, honest Jack steered away, making faces 
at every man he saw, and calling himself Captain Jenkins to 
every one who asked his nanje. 

The old butler was now announced. Sir William was re- 
ported to have become reanimated when he heard of his son’s 
expected visit. Every one assisted Walsingham to dress ; and 
when he descended the stairs. Testy was heard to say : — 

“ I never turn my back on the man who confesses his faults 
and endeavours to retrieve an error ; at the same time I never 
place implicit confidence in a man until he has proved his sin- 
cerity by parting with his money. You must manage to return 
here to night, for your goods and chattels shall not go out of 
this house until I have seen every record of your past life de- 
stroyed.” 

There is,” remarked Stanhope, “ in every gentleman some 
honourable feeling left. 1 never knew one so perfectly bad, but 
had one or two green spots on his heart, which, at the end, 
gave a verdure and freshness to the whole body. I acquit him 
of that which 1 thought him before the most guilty. A woman 
who places herself under the protection of any man, offers her- 
self to public insult ; and 1 know that many would have acted 
similarly under the same circumstances. You will hear from 


THE GAMESTER. 


183 


me again, Mr. Walsingham, when your first painful interview 
with your father is past ; and in shaking hands with you now, 

1 do it in the sincere hope that you may by your future conduct 
merit your restoration to society.” 

“ Your sister !” faintly ejaculated Walsingham ; “ she would 
guide me better, and save me from a relapse arising from her 
refusal.” 

“I will not answer for her,” replied Stanhope. “Testy, 
myself, and Douglass will bear witness of her feelings in re- 
gard to yourself; every past act must be made known to her. 

I will not extenuate or add aught in malice ; as you have re- 
counted your life, so will I repeat it ; and if she can accept you 
after the recital, and your father pardon and take back his son, 

I will be no obstacle to a union which, I have vanity enough to 
believe, will keep you from ever again relapsing into your 
former errors. All women are vain of reforming the vicious, 
and virtue and innocence are strong inducements to happiness. 
— You walk strongly, considering your wound.” 

“ It is nothing. When first I was taken to the Cafe, I bu- 
sied my brains how I could turn it to account to avoid you. 
Now I sincerely thank Heaven for the trifling bodily pain I 
have endured : I feel a new being — one who has cast aside the 
garment of deceit, and again clothed himself as becomes a 
gentleman.” 

Testy accompanied Walsingham to the hotel where Sir 
William lived. Stanhope availed himself of the moment to 
question Douglass. From Walsingham’s confession he had 
gleaned but little, and as yet he had not examined the list of 
victims. With a frankness well becoming his character before 
he had used subterfuge and deceit, he told his brother-in-law 
what had occurred : his eyes were now opened — he saw he had 
been the dupe not only of Walsingham’s sleight-of-hand, but of 
his words, and, like all men when the discovery is made, be- 
came lavish of his abuse upon the wretch who had ruined 
him. 

“ Not ruined yet, thank God !” said Stanhope: “we shall 
have Walton over here, to take the turn of the market; and I 
think, with Walsingham, the rise of the funds will not only re- 
pay you, but repay you with interest. You are rather severely 
hit by public, but more injured by private play : the lesson is 
not without its moral, and you well know the value of your 
wife, from her excellent behaviour since the discovery. We 
have now to manage Amelia : — it is a serious risk marrying 


184 


WALSINGHAM, 


her to Walsingham ; but the girl is over head and ears in love, 
and reason will be of no avail.” 

“If Walsingham only half regrets,” said Douglass, “the 
folly he has committed, as sincerely as I do the indiscretion of 
which I have been guilty, he would become as staid and as 
steady as a philosopher of eighty,” 

“ It is my advice,” said Stanhope, “ to recapitulate the whole 
of that man’s confession. Testy, never blinded by words, is 
resolved to be satisfied from Sir William Walsingham’s own 
mouth that this is his son ; he has followed, or rather accom- 
panied Walsingham to the hotel: we shall be safe if he is for- 
given. — I own, I am curious to see the contents of this sealed 
parcel, in which are the bonds and the list of his victims ; but 
perhaps the best way will be to await the arrival of Walton, 
who, as a man of business, will best understand the nature of the 
documents. Honor was to accompany him, and in the hands 
of the latter we should always be safe.” 

“Repentance,” said Douglass, “ ever comes too late : it is 
needless now regretting my head-strong folly, which prompted 
me to run counter to Verity’s wish in regard to the settlement. 
Had I done that, I should indeed have been happy.” 

“ Come, don’t drawl over the past ; let us look to the future 
— there is many a bright gleam in the clouded sky above you — 
let us remain quiet and comfortable where we are, and await the 
arrival of the Waltons. Paris is as quiet as if Charles the Tenth 
had never lived, and Louis-Philippe had been born lieutenant- 
general of France, with Lafayette for his second in command.” 

They now turned into the court-yard of the Hotel Chatham ; 
but they had not reached the door at the further end of the court, 
which led to the apartments on the rez de chaussee, which they 
inhabited, before they were startled by the voice of Jack, who 
came clattering along in his top-boots, roaring and foaming like 
a Spanish bull with a parcel of fireworks stuck in his stern. 

“ Here’s a pretty go, to be sure !” he began ; “ there’s no liv- 
ing amongst pirates without an iron collar round ^our throat. 
Whilst I was keeping a look-out over that cursed land-shark. 
I’m blessed if they haven’t cut out the carriage, and taken the 
pole for a Ram-bullet, as the outlandish old woman said, as she 
rubbed her old withered hands together, and bundled out of her 
garlic mouth as many words as you’d find in a station-list watch 
and quarter bill of an eighty-gun ship.” 

“Good God!” said Stanhope: “what! both carriages 
gone?” 


THE GAMESTER. 


185 


Both,” said Jack ; “ and not only that, but every cart and 
omnibus which blockaded our concerns are all gone, and the 
coast as clear as Brighton roadstead when the clouds get up 
from the south-west and a thick fog comes from the sea.” 

“ But where the devil,” said Douglass, “ are the carriages 
gone ?” 

“Ah!” said Jack, “that’s just the question I made, and 
much in the same language ; and all the answer I got was from 
the old woman and a man, the last of whom knew just about as 
much English as made him quite noncomprehensible, as our 
boatswain used to say. The monkey pursed up his mouth like 
the under part of a sucking fish, and said he, ‘ Vorter carriage 
gone Ram-bullet : very good, sar, for make haste carry country- 
men ; all tings very good for French people.’ ” 

“ What did you say to all that stuff?” said Douglass. 

“ Nothing,” said Jack ; “ but I knocked him down for a cursed 
jackass, and made sail to report the action. You might play 
skittles along the Bnlls’-yards now,” he continued, “ for there’s 
not an obstacle the length of a capstan-bar left, and every wa- 
gon, cart, dray, hackney-coach, omnibus, and carriage has dis- 
appeared like the Flying Dutchman when he’s fired a shot and 
sunk a ship.” 

“ This is bad,” said Douglass ; “ and this fellow only makes 
it worse. What the devil do you mean by the Bulls’-yards ?” 

“ That long place which goes right ahead to where the French 
boy took the bad aim, and only wounded that precious canting, 
whining, lying rascal, who did you, and me, and every body 
else.” 

As Stanhope and Douglass entered the house. Jack once 
more approached, took off his hat, and asked for orders. 

“Stay where you are,” said Stanhope, “and keep a good 
look-out. This is bad work, Douglass !” 

“ Misfortunes never come singly ; they fly together like par- 
rots, one never seen without the other.” 

The ladies had most anxiously awaited the arrival of their 
husbands. Amelia’s voice was first ; and in her inquiries about 
Walsingham, she overlooked every other apparent calamity, and 
actually danced with joy when she heard that her lover had 
walked to his father’s. She never listened one moment to the 
account of the carriage ; but, being at last convinced that all 
her dresses were gone, she stopped her hilarity, gave a sigh, 
and reconciled the loss by the certainty that if there were no 
carriages there could be no departure. 

16 * 


186 


WALSINGHAM, 


Stanhope now went through the whole confession made by 
Walsingham ; and never was horror more strongly exemplified 
than in those women. The only one calm, attentive, and reso- 
lute, was Amelia : but the sneer on her pretty lips was suffi- 
cient to convince her brother that the whole story was unbelieved 
by her. “ Nay 1” said Stanhope, rather hurt by her incredu- 
lity, “ we have another witness. Testy, who was present. Be- 
sides, you may question Jack; he overheard it, and would have 
taken his life, had we not interposed.” 

“ My dear Amelia,” said Mrs. Douglass, for Mrs. Stanhope 
never spoke, “ you must in reality give up all idea of this man : 
only imagine how seriously it would annoy your sister to find 
you had married one who so endeavoured to injure her reputa- 
tion.” 

“I tell you all,” said Amelia firmly, “I will marry him. 
You hear what Stanhope says : his repentance is sincere — he 
has again solicited my affections. I saw him risk his life for 
another ; and all the words in the world would never make me 
believe that a man would rush into death with such a load of 
sin as is here represented. He made himself worse than he 
was, that you should like him the better when the real truth 
came out. Would a real gamester repay money won at cards ? 
Pooh ! nonsense ! — the story is as noncomprchensible, as Jack 
says, as the carriage affair. — Is he not the only son of Sir Wil- 
liam Walsingham ? And pardon me, ladies,” she said archly, as 
she walked to the glass, her face burning with blushes and ex- 
citement,. “ Lady Walsingham will be happy to receive you at 
Walsingham Hall!” 

Even Stanhope, serious as he was, could not resist the temp- 
tation to laugh. The hoyden girl had given away her heart ; 
but her spirits remained the same, and as she made an elegant 
courtesy towards the door as if to receive company, in walked 
Testy to receive the salute. 

“ Now come, you dear good old man 1” she began, “come, 
and tell all these low-spirited mortals your opinion.” 

“ It is. Miss, that you need not remind a man of his misfor- 
tunes. If I am old, I am clear-sighted : that is more than the 
young and the handsome can say.” 

“ Mr. Testy,” replied Amelia, “ a compliment does not sit 
easy on your lips.” 

“ No, my lady, that would be ! but the truth does.” 

“A truce!” said Stanhope. “ Did you see Walsingham to 
his father’s ?” 


THE GAMESTER. 


187 


“ I did, and entered the room. The old gentleman could not 
bear the light, and it was darkened. Walsingham threw him- 
self on his knees, and I heard an inarticulate ‘ God bless you, 
my son ! I shall now die in peace and happiness !’ The heart 
of the prodigal was melted within him ; and I heard Walsing- 
ham, the gamester — the man of no character — the confessed 
swindler and cheat — sob like a child ! I called the old servant 
aside, and told him my abode. I promised to send Walsing- 
ham’s toilet to the hotel ; and I have no doubt in my own 
mind but that every word is the truth which he has uttered ; — 
indeed, I knew so much of his character, that 1 must have de- 
tected any palpable falsehood.” 

“ Had we not better open the packet, and at once realize the 
money ?” said Douglass. 

“ No,” said Testy. “When a man is inclined to act ho- 
nourably, I would never appear to suspect him. The best plan 
to adopt is, to wait until after the marriage, return him the 
packet with the seal unbroken, and leave him to do that act, 
which will come with fifty times the grace from him than from 
another.” 

“Agreed,” said Douglass. “How as to the result of all 
this 

“In that,” said Testy, “ I have no voice. It is for you to 
consider; and you are well able to judge of the danger of a 
" union with a gamester.” 

“Hold your tongue, you vile croaker!” said Amelia. 

“ — And you to consider,” continued Testy, “ how far his re- 
pentance is sincere. This I will add, — that if we never forgive 
in this world, we could not well supplicate forgiveness our- 
selves.” 

“ Oh, you are a darling, good old man 1” interrupted Amelia; 
“and I love you as much now as I hated you before.” 

^ “ Ever in extremes 1” replied Testy ; “ ever changing with 

every breeze! What would Walsingham say if he overheard 
that which you have now uttered ?” 

“ Why, my dear Mr. Testy,” replied Amelia, laughing, “ if 
Mr. Walsingham was jealous of you, I know — ” 

“What?” interrupted Testy. 

. “ Why, that he might as well be jealous of my grandfather.” 

“ To this match,” said Mrs. Douglass, “ I never will give my 
' consent, because I know he does not love Amelia in sincerity.” 

“I do not think it is worth taking any trouble about,” lazily 
murmured Mrs. Stanhope. 


188 


WALSINGHAM, 


“If Walsingham is sincere,” said Stanhope, “I do not think 
it a bad match.” 

“It will be a lucrative one,” said Douglass. 

“ To you it will be beneficial,” said Testy: “ but I will leave 
you to argue the point yourselves, whilst I run to do as I pro- 
mised in regard of the wounded man.” 

It was quite in vain that the point was contested. Amelia had 
seen only in this worthless fellow all the good and fair side of 
the picture : she had been enchanted by his conversation ; he 
had ever been in her eyes an elegant, accomplished, daring 
man ; and however much she might have wavered on the score 
of Walsingham having actually robbed her brother-in-law, yet 
the gallant act of saving the gendarme at the risk of his own life 
blotted out the remembrance of all past suspicions, and he stood 
in her eyes — a gentleman rather addicted to play. 

Stanhope was much against any precipitate step. The ex- 
ample of Douglass was before him, and he resolved to have, if 
the match proceeded, a most ample settlement, — to tie up the 
gamester by bonds in which he should firmly bind himself to 
pay a large sum of money if he ever played again : he would 
have the consent of Sir William from his own lips, and, like a 
prudent man, made plenty of good resolutions. He took the 
best method with all young ladies in love, not violently to op- 
pose, but cautiously to advise : ladies do more when coaxed 
than when commanded. With all his prudence, however, with 
all his caution, he found upon one subject that he gained no 
ground. Amelia’s mind was made up ; she was resolved to 
reform the rake. A man of his courage must possess good 
qualities ; the jewel was in the toad’s skull ; and, therefore, the 
numerous conversations, invariably ended with the point upon 
which they set out, that Walsingham was a man a woman might 
love, and Amelia owned her love. 

A day or two had scarcely elapsed before Jack saw the two 
carriages, unhurt by the unexpected voyage, safe at the hotel. 
To his wonder, all the baggage was safe ; not one morsel of the 
cargo, as Jack reported, had been pilfered ; and the only harm 
done to the carriage was a small hole burnt in the carpet by a 
cigar. This made Jack believe that he was amongst the most 
extraordinary people he had ever seen : and he felt more at his 
case when he found that articles of such value were within the 
grasp of apparently a most mutinous set of men, and yet that 
not one article was destroyed. 

Walsingham had established himself at his father’s hotel. 


THE GAMESTER. 


189 


There was not a day that some of the party did not visit him ; 
and after every conversation he was left by either Stanhope or 
Douglass with the firm conviction on their minds, that his first 
false step was occasioned by the bad counsel of his tutor; that 
poverty and false pride continued him on the course; and that 
once having fallen, he felt the difficulty of retrieving his charac- 
ter greater than continuing unsuspected in his avocation. Every 
allowance which an honourable man could make for one who 
had fallen so low was made; and day after day Walsingham 
began to shine a hero of romance. 

“ Here,” said he one morning as Stanhope visited him, “ here 
you shall see the last records of my infamy, save that which is 
remembered by mankind, and which is imperishable, I fear. 
Hot as the weather is now, I have lighted a fire ; and there,” 
he continued, as he fed the flame with the mechanical cards, 
and saw the false dice, the despatches, the doctor, all perish, — 
“ would to God I could feel that the oblivion on my mind could 
be as dark and as mouldering as those damnable instruments !” 

“ It is odd,” said Stanhope, “ that a man of your study, — a 
man of your genius, I may say, — never seriously thought be- 
fore how certain was discovery, and how the brand of infamy 
must attach itself to a man who is so conscious of his faults that 
his eyes never meet the glance of another’s.” 

“ You know as yet,” replied Walsingham, “ very little of the 
feelings of a regular gamester : all the pride of man gives way 
to the excitement — the intoxication of mind which invariably 
attaches itself to the gamester. I read books for no other pur- 
pose than to appear a gentleman. I read the Bible, I com- 
mented on the Scriptures, I dived into theology, with no wish 
to find the Spirit working within me, — but to learn by heart 
quotations applicable in general conversation, to blind those 
whose quickness might suspect me. The works of lively au- 
thors I studied, to make my conversation partake of their wit, 
and by robbing even the dead, enhance my own value. Every 
step of my life tended to perfect me in deception ; and although 
a very considerable adept in the art, I am — even I — a mere 
plaything in the hands of others, who are much more dexterous 
than myself. The clouds of the past, thank God ! begin to dis- 
sipate ; there is an eye now, even in this world, to watch over 
my welfare, to guide me through life, an humble imitation of her 
virtue ; and I have learnt from my father’s words to believe 
what the really wicked never choose to credit, — that there is 
One above who knows the secrets of my heart. My father has 


190 


WALSINGHAM, 


expressed a wish to see you ; he is anxious that my marriage 
should take place previous to his death. My return has given 
him fresh energy ; and there is a confidence about him, that he 
will live to see his son under the protection of a guardian angel. 
Will you see him now ?” 

“ I can have no objection, Walsingham, because I know my 
sister’s sentiments : but, remember that I do not pledge myself 
for her. I only say she is a woman, and knows how gallantly 
you risked your life to save another’s. You know the brave 
have ever a friend in woman.” 


THE GAMESTER. 


191 


CHAPTER XX. 


Sir William intimated his wish to see Stanhope ; and Stan- 
hope was ushered into the sick man’s apartment. The light 
was almost carefully excluded ; for long suffering had rendered 
the glare of day irksome. 

“ Come near my bedside,” said the old man ; “ there are 
but a few weeks more for me to linger on in this darkness ; — 
to me the night and the day are as one, and that of the grave 
will be more welcome than the continuance of suffering. I live 
to have again seen my son : I have lived to the last extremity 
of life, and have blessed him ; I have revoked all former wills, 
and made him my heir in all but the misery I suffered by his mis- 
conduct. He has spoken to me of your sister : he has told me 
of the sad event in your family, from a gamester as unprincipled 
as my son could have been ; he has offered his hand — a hand 
familiar witfi crime; he has told you and myself the truth, and 
it is for us now to place him in security, beyond the fear of 
falling again. To his marriage I have given my consent, and 
await the same consent from your lips.” 

“ I will, Sir William,” said Stanhope, “ be no bar to the union. 
I am satisfied that if we never forgave, the first false step would 
lead us to irretrievable ruin.” 

“ Sir,” said Sir William, “ I have heard from others that you 
are a soldier — a man well known for your honourable feelings. 
I see through the eyes of others ; nor have I been inactive, 
although a cripple in bed. I need not, I am sure, point out to 
you that a wholesome lesson may be learnt from my son’s life. 
I could add anecdote to anecdote of men in the highest station 
who have fallen into the meanest ways from gaming. The 
nobleman — noble only in title, refuses to day his debts of honour, 
and stops a cheque the hour before its payment; between that 
man, and the vilest, most degraded being who ever robbed upon 
the highway without committing murder, there is not a shade 
of difference ; — one lolls on sofas — is received in the society 


192 


WALSTNGHAM, 


which should spurn him ; the other pays the forfeit of his crime 
by a life of exile and of toil, in all the severity of the penal colo- 
nies. Yet these noblemen should be marks to frighten others : 
—but no — they are the very people quoted by those in lower 
life as having cheated and still being countenanced. It is an 
ungrateful task to endeavour to mend the world ; — let us confine 
ourselves to the thorough reclaiming of my son — and, I hope, 
your future brother-in-law.” 

“ There is no guide so faithful as a woman. There is a 
watchfulness, without prying curiosity, which ever shields the 
wavering: it is that sex which alone can thoroughly reclaim 
the vicious. To one of that sex, a brighter creature, I am told, 
for these poor eyes will never see her — they nearly closed for 
ever when I saw my son — bear this token from me : if costli- 
ness enhances the value of the present, it will not be the less 
precious when seen. To another of your family, Mr. Douglass, 
bear this letter; it is the gift of a father who would erase every 
bad impression of a son’s memory : he was seduced into public 
gaming by my son ; his hopes have been nearly ruinous ; — this 
will re-establish him ; my son has repaid the rest. I am rich. 
Captain Stanhope — the world’s blessings have been largely 
showered upon me, if riches alone constituted happiness. 
What avails the heaps of gold I could command now? Can 
the poor enfeebled old man, whose trembling limbs no longer 
can support him — whose eyes no longer can guide him — whose 
palate is dulled, whose head is bald, find solace in his wealth ? 
No, sir, no ; the only comfort in old age — the only bubble of 
life which rises to overflow his heart, is from his children’s 
affection. Name but the sum, large as you may esteem it, 
which you think an adequate sufficiency in case of my son’s 
relapsing, and I place it this instant in your hands, as the trustee 
to a settlement, and leave all and every thing to your disposition. 
I am sure your sister will guide my son rightly. Say before 
you go — give me more comfort, for, God knows, I have lacked 
it for years, — say that your sister shall be his wife, and if I die 
the next moment, I die satisfied.” 

Stanhope took the old man’s hand ; it trembled as if with 
palsy : he pledged himself to the match, well knowing that his 
sister’s heart was already given. 

“ Now,” said Sir William, “send me your lawyer: I will 
keep life in me to do a justice for my son. You must send for 
him quickly: if he is in London, hasten him. The idle and 
the curious flock to see a city which has survived a revolution, 


THE GAMESTER, 


193 


and gaze with open eyes and wonderment upon the marks of 
musket-balls upon a wall : — how much more quickly should 
that man move, whose object is good towards his friend, and 
who shall not go unrewarded for his expedition !” 

“ I expect rny and the family’s lawyer here within a few 
hours,” replied Stanhope ; “ a man whose name is exemplified 
in his life — Honor. Allow me now to go; this long visit has 
nearly exhausted you; and although I know that death is cer- 
tain, yet it may be far more distant than you anticipate.” 

“ God bless you. Captain Stanhope ! It is a consolation few 
experience, to find, as the curtain of life is about to drop over 
those who have been wretched, that every moment before the 
lingering pall covers them from this world brings with it a hap- 
piness, robs death of half its terrors, and leaves the cold remains 
of a happy being to the last a tenant of the grave. I expect you 
to-morrow — nay, to-night, if Mr. Honor arrives : it is wise to 
delay a bad work, but sinful to impede an honourable one.” 

Stanhope left the room wondering how such a man could be 
the father of such a son, and how one who spoke so nobly could 
have married his cook out of spite. “ We are curious crea- 
tures,” said he to himself; “compounds of good and evil, 
blindly following sudden impulses, rarely taking time to con- 
sider, wasting life in frivolity, and looking at existence wdth 
greater estimation an hour before the lamp of life is extin- 
guished. — Well met. Testy.” 

“ How goes on the matrimonial tie, Captain Stanhope ?” 

“ Well ; it will be a match, and I hope we may live to see 
what influence a virtuous romp may have over a repentant game- 
ster,” 

“ It’s a desperate throw,” said Testy ; “ and I wish it could 
be done with the ‘ despatches,’ and thus cheat to gain a certain 
good. You have a carriage-load of people just unloading at 
your hotel, with a pious mamma, scolding her children becaiTse 
they ran to see the performance of Mr. Punch, who is showing 
Charles the Tenth’s head as a drinking-cup, very empty, and 
not so easily filled as his throne.” 

“ Shall we see you this evening ?” 

“ If I am wanted, command me : if not, you are better without 
me. Walsingham is at your house: he mends apace; his 
wound is nothing to his heart— the inflamation of the one in- 
creases as the other subsides.” ‘ 

Stanhope quickened his pace : he was fearful of the recogni- 
tion of Walsingham by Louisa before she could be prepared, 

VOL II. 17 


194 


WALSINGHAM, 


and was very apprehensive that a little natural feeling might 
overcome all religious restraint ; but she was worldly wise, and, 
like a careful wife, stood at the door to see the carriage unlade. 

Warm was the welcome between Stanhope and herself; cor- 
dial was the grasp of the hand which he extended to Honor. 
He passed quickly into the Salon, and, after greeting Walton, 
led Walsingham away to another room. He was followed by 
Amelia, who would not consent to leave him for a moment. 
The heart of Walsingham beat quicker as he was more con- 
vinced how entirely Amelia was his own. Love had crept in 
when the stronger excitement was banislied; he felt himself re- 
stored to society by her ; he felt his father’s happiness was in- 
volved in his own. He had had time for reflection ; and he had 
sense enough to see that there is no situation in life comparable 
with that which is upheld by the esteem of honourable men, — 
that the villain might for a short time exult in undiscovered 
guilt, and the mean prosper in undisturbed niggardness ; but 
that, sooner or later, the one would be despised, and the other 
ridiculed. He spoke in a straight forward manner to Amelia of 
his own surprise at the manner of life he had pursued, and 
wondered how he could have risked the loss of the great pro- 
perty he was about to inherit, for the precarious plunder of a 
fellow-creature ; and now his reading came to aid returning 
virtue, and that which was before studied for ridicule, or related 
for effect, was turned into the right channel, and made him a 
thousand times more estimable to Amelia. 

“ You have jnow,” she said, “ to meet my sister. That meet- 
ing will be dreadful : to both it will recall a time belter blotted 
for ever from memory. She has, by repentance and prayer, 
made all atonement she can in this world ; and may God pre- 
serve her in the next I It is useless saying how sincerely I ex- 
tend that wish to yourself. My brother will prepare her for 
yoDr reception ; and you have only to be natural — to be sincere : 
it will be a pang for a moment, and then, I trust, a total oblivion 
of the past, and a sincere friendship for the future.” 

“ If I had but fallen into the guidance of such an angel as 
yourself, Amelia 1” 

“Stop, Walsingham, I pray ; a year or two hence will be 
time enough for the remark.” 

“ By all the powers above and below,” said Mr. Honor to 
Stanhope, “ I think the revolution has turned all your brains ! 
There’s that sailor fellow standing at the door calling himself a 
captain ; Douglass ruined from the very step which in another 


THE GAMESTER. 


195 


gave him his fortune ; Miss Stanhope fallen in love with the 
only man in the whole world she ought to have avoided ; you 
fascinated with a villain who insulted your sister ; and even Mrs. 
Stanhope excited by the event. It’s all confusion confounded; 
and no man can give~ advice, even if he was paid for it, in such 
an entangled case.” 

“ Douglass,” said Stanhope, “ listen to Honor : we must be 
in a precious net when he declares he cannot disentangle it. — 
By-the-by, I have a present h)r you from Sir William Wal- 
singham. I fancy you may now repurchase Longdale House, 
and laugh at the predictions of Margery Coulson.” 

“ The barren branch of infamy is the only one of that old 
hag’s words which have not been more than realised. I suppose 
if she saw my hand now, with this paper therein, she would 
trace a new M, and make me rich indeed.” 

“I tell you,” said Honor, who (luring this conversation had 
been in deep meditation, his right hand having been placed 
across his forehead, as if to contain his ideas within his skull, — 
“ I tell you that never did a man consent to a more desperate 
leap than you are about to take. Have you all consented ?” 

“ All, except Margaret,” replied Stanhope, “ who says she 
has no objection, if she is to have no trouble. But I doubt if 
ever she could be dressed in time to attend the ceremony.” 

“Why hurry that,” said Honor, “which is better delayed? 
why rush your sister into a marriage which has every thing 
against it ?” 

“Excepting always,” said Douglass, “about four hundred 
thousand pounds and a baronetcy. Is it worth a man’s while to 
sacrifice that to a pack of cards ?” 

“We have instances before us that such things are ; we know 
from experience that the gamester is seldom, if ever, reclaimed. 
We see in Spaniards the hardy mule-driver stake his last farthing; 
we know noblemen existing by gaming, swindling, cheating ; 
and why should we think better of this Walsingham, whose 
whole life has-been one tissue of fraud and deceit, and who at 
this moment is only frightened, not subdued ?” 

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Honor,” said Amelia “ I have sub- 
dued him.” 

“There is nothing,” replied Honor, “that a virtuous woman 
cannot effect ; but you are young and giddy, more wanting a 
guide than being one.” 

“Stop, Mr. Honor; my mind is made up:. do you go and 
make the settlements. My sister has met Mr. Walsingham ; 


196 


WALSINGHAM, 


her religion came to her aid, when her pride was about to con- 
quer ; she has forgiven him, and not one word of the past is ever 
to be mentioned.” 

“ And Walton ?” said Stanhope. 

“ He thinks Walsingham right; and that the funds will rally, 
and that at least twenty per cent, be turned upon the purchase.” 

“ You are, Miss Stanhope, a strange creature !” interrupted 
Honor, smiling. 

“ I may be a strange girl ; but I trust I have the good qua- 
lities of my mother. My word is pledged — my hand is given ; 
you and the bishop must do the rest.” 

“ Here is something Sir William has sent you, Amelia,” said 
her brother : “ I dare say it w ill not disgrace even your beauty.” 

“ A bauble,” replied Amelia as she opened the case and dis- 
covered a magnificent set of brilliants. “ Tell the old gentleman, 
if he can rally and live a year, I will present him with a much 
more precious jewel in a reformed son.” 

Honor persuaded Douglass to give up the handsome present, 
to form a settlement for his boy, and promised to see Crimp as 
to the repurchase of Longdale. The melancholy of Douglass was 
gradually converted into a lively mirth ; Margaret could neither 
be elevated nor depressed; and Louisa, whenever the subject 
was mentioned, attributed all to the goodness of Providence, 
who had thus miraculously rescued a sinner from perdition. 

Honor was conducted by Walsingham and Stanhope to the 
bedside of the old baronet. It gave him new life to see the man 
by whose activity he yet hoped to witness Iiis son’s marriage. 
In regard to the settlement, he spoke with all the wisdom of age 
and experience, having first desired his son to leave the room. 
“I would not, Mr. Honor,” he said, “have you settle all the 
money : it would imply so utter a want of eonfidetice in my 
son, that he would feel the thorn for ever fretting near his heart. 
Neither would I have it so small, that the girl who thus ventures 
her happiness could ever return to even a moderate competency. 
I would have the settlement made so that he should not feel 
slighted, or Miss Stanhope placed in jeopardy. I have, Mr. 
Honor, long since done with gentlemen of your profession. I 
found the interest of the funds come in without the least trouble 
to me, beyond signing a power of attorney to my banker : the 
principal part of my wealth is therein. Here is an account of 
all I possess, a marriage settlement made on my first marriage ; 
and in giving you this paper, remember I give you free permis- 
sion to draw the settlement as you like. I am well aware of the 


THE GAMESTER. 


197 


terrible risk which attends Miss Stanhope 1 know all my 
son’s follies, — I believe in the sincerity of his repentance ; but 
men on the couch of sickness repent, and generally relapse with 
returning health. 1 have only one hope — one consolation : he 
has some virtue in his -blood, and sooner or later that will course 
properly through his veins. If he once gains a fooling in society, 
he will never risk its loss by a recurrence to former means : his 
poverty might have prompted him, — his wish to place me at 
defiance might have seconded him ; now he can no longer want, 
“he can no longer feel anger or penury. One thing more, Mr. 
Honor: remember, 1 will not read one word of the settlement ; 
1 leave it to you and Captain Stanhope, and feel that I am in 
honourable hands. From this bed I shall never move, excepting 
to yonder sofii and my grave. I want but little. You may leave 
me two lljousand a year, to revert to the settlements, and the 
rest, with Walsingham Hall, its lands and furniture, may pass 
at once into the possession of my son. Go get this good work 
done : there is no joy in sickness like the consciousness of a 
good action : to restore my son is my last — my earnest wish ; 
and I give but little if I give all I possess to effect so great an 
end.” 

Honor looked at Stanhope, and Stanhope returned the look : 
they understood each other, and requested Sir William to name 
a sum. 

Even the temper of Sir William was not quite proof against 
this attack, and he answered pettishly, “Never! You make 
the sacrifice perhaps of a sister. What do I givel wealth, of 
which I cannot avail myself, excepting, as some old fools do, to 
found a charity, endow a church, or maintain a pack of rubbish 
called a museum, and leave their children beggars and outcasts. 
But the government which consents to receive such wealth, is 
one degree worse than the malicious fool who leaves it : it is 
expected to have some honour, and is the guardian of lunatics.” 

“ We will do our best, then,” said Honor, “ for both parties ; 
it does not require the time you imagine to prepare the docu- 
ment, — it can be done even without assistance by this time to- 
morrow. We want no rough copy, no engrossing on parch- 
ment, no counsel’s opinion, no opposite lawyer to make delay 
and cause expense ; the whole shall be done for nothing, and 
my name shall be a guarantee against errors.” 

They left the room, and Walsingham entered. 

“ Who is that?” asked the baronet. 

“ Your son,” replied Walsingham. 

17 » 


198 


WALSINGHAM, 


“ Come near to me, my son : that word brings to my old 
heart comfort, joy, happiness. Listen to me : — I have few 
weeks or days to live, and each hour robs me of my strength. 
I am sinking gradually, and already feel "my memory impaired 
— my mind wavering. Before I am robbed of both, let me do 
a parent’s act towards a repentant son. Your former life is now 
forgotten : you live and move as a gentleman ; but habits once 
formed are seldom easily laid aside. You are about to marry 
the girl whose love for you has overstepped prudence : no one 
but that girl, so conscious in her own virtue, would have run 
the risk of marrying a professed, gamester. Show by your con- 
duct that you are sensible of this great act of sacritice on her 
part : she has nothing to rely'^ upon but your promises, not one 
of which as yet you have ever kept. As there is a God above 
in whose hands I commit my soul, so do I now swear that if 
our spirit is allowed to watch over those we love, — a doctrine 
which has been maintained and believed, — by that God I swear 
that if your conduct to this earthly angel who has preserved you 
should not be conformable to your promises to me, I will at the 
last and general day testify against my ow'n son. But if you, 
overcome by shame for your former life, feel tins regeneration 
and act as becomes a husband — a man — a Christian, my hands 
shall be lifted up in your behalf, and I would implore God to 
visit the punishment on me which you have deserved. There 
is no man so innately vicious, who has been born a gentleman, 
who cannot be reclaimed : retire after your marriage to the 
Hall, court solitude, seek reflection, remember your God. A 
great and a good author offers you this remark : — ‘ A constant 
residence amidst noise and pleasure inevitably obliterates the 
impressions of piety ; and a frequent abstraction of ourselves 
into a state where this life, like the next, operates only upon the 
reason, will reinstate religion in its just authority.’ — Man,” con- 
tinued Sir William, “ you have betrayed, — your God you have 
deserted : turn now with the feeling of a man to the paths you 
have forsaken ; there is ever a hand to guide, a light to direct : 
it is, I tell you, in retirement that you must seek repose and con- 
fidence. ‘ This is that conquest of the world and of ourselves,’ 
says Dr. Johnson, ‘ which has always been considered as tiie per- 
fection of human nature ; and this is only to be obtained by fer- 
vent prayer, steady resolutions, and frequent retirement from 
folly and vanity, — from the cares of avarice and the joys of in- 
temperance — from the lulling sounds of deceitful flattery, and 
the tempting sight of prosperous wickedness.’ In that I have 


THE GAMESTER. 


199 


given you all the advice of the best of men : your own happiness 
is within your own reach. Go to her who has consented to be 
under your guidance : be kind — be generous — be attentive. Life 
is made up of trifles ; and I would have you cautious to yield 
in trivial matters, and to assume your proper authority in great 
ones.” 

VValsingham, the gamester, was humbled: he threw himself 
upon his knees at the bedside of his almost exhausted parent ; 
he swore to obey him — to relinquish his former ways, and to 
trust for repose of conscience in tlie rectitude of his future con- 
duct. The hand of the old man was placed upon his son’s 
head ; and as he uttered “ God bless and prosper you, and ripen 
the seeds of virtue into full bearing!” he fell back exhausted. 

Honor kept his word: he retired to his chamber — he drew 
up the settlement — he placed Amelia, in case of separation aris- 
ing from her husband’s behaviour, in independence, whilst he 
left Walsingham the unshackled command of a large sum of 
money. The document was taken, when perfected, to Wal- 
singham, who wished to make the settlement larger upon Ame- 
lia ; but Honor had acted as the legal adviser of both parties. 
Sir William, who still lingered on, would not hear one word of 
the contents : he signed the requisite papers for the transfer of 
the stock to the named trustees, and he then bade them not to 
enter his room until he saw liis daughter-in-law in her bridal 
attire. 

It required more preparation from the milliner than the lawyer. 
Testy was called in, the requisite documents were got ready, and 
two days after this last injunction of Sir William, during which 
time his only attendant was his old servant, the marriage took 
place at the ambassador’s chapel. The gaudy-dressed servants 
took care to stand in regular rank to receive the customary fee. 
The bishop performed the ceremony : Douglass, Testy, and 
Stanhope witnessed it; and even Margaret was seen to express 
herself with some animation as she surveyed the beautiful bride. 
“ Marriage,” she said, relapsing into her wonted drawl, “ was a 
very imposing ceremony ; but it required immense labour to be 
dressed in time.” 

There was no one more sincere in her prayers on that occa- 
sion than Mrs. Walton : she gave her blessing in a tone of voice 
subdued by religion : — she had cast off‘ the hypocritical sanctity 
of the over-zealous Methodist, — she had become the meek, the 
penitent, the forgiving Christian. 

Before the party had passed the large gates which enclose 


200 


WAtSlNGHAM, THE GAMESTER. 


that ground which, by legal ingenuity, is called a part of West- 
minster and within the diocese of the Bishop of London, Wal- 
ton had broken the seal of the packet, and Douglass found his 
lost wealth restored to him. Honor exclaiming, as he saw the 
paper, “A man must be sincere when he gives up his money!” 
On alighting at the hotel of Sir William, Jack offered his arm 
to the bride on one side, as Walsingham stood on the other ; and 
when she had passed, he slopped the eager lover, and said, — 

“ Fm blessed if Fm skipper of that collier yet ! There’s 
many a man, when the wind is foul, who swears he will say his 
prayers when he gels snug into harbour, and when there, makes 
sail for the grog-shop : you are not of that kidney, are you ?” 

“ I have made many promises, Jack : trust me, I will per- 
form them.” 

“Show me my daughter,” said Sir William: “draw back 
those curtains. God of all mercies, 1 thank you ! that gleam of 
light has shown me an angel : it is the last object I shall ever 
see, for I am blind and fast sinking. Go, leave me; take my 
blessing, and do not stay here to make this day a day of mourn- 
ing : a reclaimed son stands before me, a daughter is given me 
almost at my last moment, and I le.ave this world in all content- 
ment and happiness 1” * * * ^ 

Seven years have passed, — an heir to the title lives ; and the 
baronet, who has remained in the seclusion of the country, has 
lived to merit the father’s blessing. The estate stands near the 
coast ; and Captain Jenkins, who had bought a cargo of coals, 
was seen in the Hall drinking health and prosperity to the boy, 
then four years old, and saying, “ Well, well, Fm blessed if 
Miss Amelia has not scrubbed a Blackamore white !” 


THE END. 



92 






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